


Warning: Contents Are Under Pressure

by Shey



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ADHD, AU -Office, Accidental Voyeurism, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aftercare, Aged-Up Character(s), Anxiety, Edging, Face-Fucking, Fluffy Ending, Good Peter Hale, Law Clerk Stiles, Light Angst, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Manipulative Peter Hale, Masturbation, Multi, Panic Attacks, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Spanking, Sub Stiles Stilinski, Subspace, Touch-Starved, Under-negotiated Kink, everyone consents, no infidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-04-11 12:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19109446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shey/pseuds/Shey
Summary: God, Stiles needed more Adderall. And a nap. And a good fuck. Possibly not in that order.Recent NYU grad, and new law clerk, Stiles Stilinski is sixty-five hours into a very long work week, the latest in a string of very long work weeks. He’s suffering from a terrible case of no-time-to-jerk-off, and a shared apartment with painfully thin walls. To top it off, his entitled bastard of a boss seems to have missed the memo on personal space. If he doesn’t get some quality time with his right hand, and soon, he’s going to end up fired, or evicted.Unfortunately, his roommate is forever getting in the way of his plans, and it turns out his boss is just plain trouble with a capital T.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Please mind the tags.** This gets pretty kinky. I didn’t want to give everything away, so more detailed tags will be in the notes at the end of each chapter. If you are worried about anything potentially triggery, please check there before reading!
> 
> Also, while I've read just about every fic on here for these parings (some of them more than twice!) I've only seen a handful of episodes of the show. This is my first foray into this fandom, and I'm sure everyone is horribly out of character. Please be kind!
> 
> Thank you so much to Nightwalker for beta-reading (even though she doesn't go here)!

Stiles was pretty sure this whole situation was illegal. 

Very ironically illegal. Not the Alanis Morissette version of irony either, because despite all the annoyances the 90s pop star sang about, there wasn’t a single irony in the list. A death row pardon two minutes too late was just bad goddamn timing. An entire generation of pop fans were walking around misusing valuable figures of speech. 

And don’t even get him started on using _literally_ to describe things that aren’t true. No one was "literally going to die" if they didn’t get a cup of coffee. They were “literally” going to be just fine, though potentially tired and short-tempered without their caffeine fix, and Stiles couldn’t care less—literally. The next person who told him they “could care less” was going to get an ear-full of just what that phrase was supposed to mean.

God, he needed more Adderall. And a nap. And a good fuck. Possibly not in that order.

But anyway. Ironically illegal, and definitely unethical. He should know, he'd worked his ass off for six years at NYU to earn his Juris Doctor after all. Now that he was a law clerk and studying for the bar exam, he could safely say there were rules about twelve-hour workdays, with no break, and only a granola bar and a cinnamon latte for lunch. A firm the size of Whittemore-Finstock had to know this.

He wouldn’t have even had the granola bar-latte combo if it wasn’t for his work bestie Kira, one of the baby-lawyers—technically they were called associates—dropping them off on her way back from a meeting downtown. He wasn’t sure how long ago that was. 

He hadn't made it to his desk that morning before he was swept up in a hurricane of demands from co-workers.

He spent the first few hours of the day in the associate bullpen, uninstalling and reinstalling the latest Outlook update on a dozen panicked lawyer’s cell phones. Immediately after that, he: unjammed the fax machine (he would like to know why the hell anyone still faxed these days), helped a clueless delivery kid stack a metric ton of legal paper in the storage room, and replaced the color toner in all three printers during “lunch”. Apparently, the low toner notifications were “annoying” the biggest jackass of the junior partners. The cartridges weren’t empty, and he was tempted to sell them on eBay because even used those things cost a fortune. After lunch, he got roped into spending the afternoon three floors down in records storage, pulling hard copies of files from 1997 for the newest senior partner.

It should be noted that only one of those tasks was even tangentially his job, and it wasn’t the software updating.

Stiles had discovered his passion for research during high school. If there was one thing his ADHD-addled brain was good at, it was hyper-focusing on a task that interested him—diving into a never-ending web of knowledge was like Christmas morning. Even when his mind was going a mile a minute, and bouncing from topic to topic like a caffeinated pinball, he could make jackpot connections when it counted. It had gotten easier as he got older, but there was still the occasional kickout hole, or in a worst-case scenario, that devastating line up with the middle drain that could send him from hyper-focused to hyperactive and useless. Most of the time he had enough pegs and bumpers set up to keep the ball in motion until he won the game with a kickass high score.

The Adderall was also a big help, and a noticeable absence when his mental metaphors dragged on as long as this pinball one had. He didn’t even play pinball, but the Wiki was at the end of a research thread on Murakami that ended several hours too late.

Despite his exhaustion and lack of medication, wading through file boxes labeled with the meticulous penmanship of Name Partner Bobby “call me Coach” Finstock’s former secretary was currently part of his job. Up until her retirement six months ago, the iron-willed woman had refused to upload her carefully organized records to any type of off-site server. For the most part, it was only an issue with the long-time clients, or when a new employee needed to be brought up to speed, so the senior partners let her do things her way. Now she was off enjoying her retirement, and someone had to drag the firm—swearing the whole way—into the modern world of cloud servers and indexed, searchable databases.

Stiles had been a clerk at the firm for less than a year, and he was incidentally lowest on the totem pole for shit assignments. That meant when he had been hand-delivered the short straw by a smirking Jackass Whitmore, Esq.—Mr. Toner-Cartridge himself—the son of the other company’s other name partner, David Whitmore, he dove into the paperwork headfirst.

Despite Jackson's glee, individually scanning and indexing file rooms full of confidential documents was more interesting than it sounded. Stiles thrived on knowing things, and sorting through old papers to find pertinent information gave him a giddy kind of high. Six more months and he would be the resident expert on all of this information, which would hopefully make him invaluable. As soon as he passed the Bar, he was going to climb the hell out of the company ladder. Jackass could suck it.

So while it was tedious, it wasn’t the worst assignment. The real problem was Finstock’s newest senior partner. The lawyer didn’t seem to care that Stiles’ uploading was a finely-balanced, meticulously-designed system, built around a method of sorting information that only one other person had ever understood. Pulling files randomly without dismantling the system was time-consuming, not to mention annoying. It didn’t help that the man never told Stiles what he was looking for, just sent him scurrying to the file room multiple times a day in search of an obscure spreadsheet or expired contract, that he always needed on his desk ten minutes ago. It was infuriating.

This time it was a series of briefs, thousands of pages of precedent on hostile takeovers from 1984 to 1996. For some reason, the over-priced bastard needed the files as soon as fucking possible, at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon. First of all, did the asshole never go home? And second, why did he have to inflict his slave-driver tendencies on Stiles? How was any of this legal? 

Stiles barely restrained his scream of frustration. Instead, he paused by the elevators on his way to the file room to bang his head against the wall. 

It had been a long goddamn week. He was running on fumes, not enough food, and even less sleep. And he was horny, dammit. He was _so close_ to finishing his very last set of scans for the week before leaving, was even daydreaming about his alone time, when his inbox notification flashed. The maddening little icon had quickly crushed his visions of a long, stress-relieving night with an empty apartment and the carefully hidden toy box under his bed. 

Stiles had a sweet set-up roommate wise, but the man was almost always home and awake in the evenings, and the walls were painfully thin. For weeks he had been confined to quick morning jerk-offs in the shower, muffling his groans and whimpers with a hand clamped over his mouth. 

Unfortunately for his dick, Stiles was one-hundred percent incapable of being quiet while getting off. A fact which was made painfully obvious one mortifying night when he was sixteen and his father burst into his room, gun drawn, thinking he was being attacked, or kidnapped, or something.

He and his dad quickly made a pact that _the incident_ would never, ever be spoken of again. 

The only positive to the situation, was that Stiles didn't have to tell his dad he was gay. The vibrator shoved up his ass and gay porn streaming on his laptop had made that pretty damn obvious.

Tonight though, the apartment was his. His roommate had an event that was scheduled late, and Stiles was guaranteed to be alone until sometime after midnight. He had plans, detailed ones involving the box under his bed, that he had been looking forward to all week. Potentially being stuck at work until who knows when was throwing a lawyer-sized wrench into everything.

He banged his head against the wall one more time with a groan. “Fucking Lawyers...” 

“Keep it in your pants, Bilinski. No one wants to hear your fantasies.”

Stiles choked on another curse as he flinched backward in surprise. “Shi—sorry, Coach!” 

Finstock was dressed in his typical disheveled style: tie a little bit crooked and jacket creased from lack of care, about a month past due for a haircut, and sporting an intense grin that made him look just slightly deranged. He was also one of the best mergers and acquisitions lawyers in New York City. Stiles figured that once your name was on the building, you didn’t need to prove yourself to anyone anymore. Not that he could imagine Finstock ever trying to prove himself. 

His boss' grin didn’t waver at Stiles’ stammered apology. “It might be Friday, but you’ve got a few hours until quitting time. We aren’t paying you to make deposits to your spank bank.”

Stiles felt heat flood his face and he gaped helplessly for several valuable seconds. “But that’s not--!” The elevator doors slid shut behind Finstock with a thump, and Stiles groaned, resuming his face-plant against the wall. 

Terrific. 

Something else to add to the never-ending list of embarrassing situations his brain could torment him with at three in the morning. It would fit nicely in between the time he burst in on his roommate getting out of the shower and stared for way too long, literally drooling and getting a delicious—though in retrospect mortifying—eyeful in the process, and the time Jackson pulled his shorts down in front of Lydia in fourth grade, showing the entire class his penis since he forgot to put on underwear that day. Despite his hard-earned adult perspective, that one was currently his anxiety’s favorite. 

Who knew that fifteen years later he would be living on the other side of the country, working for Jackson’s father, and waiting for Jackson—already a junior partner, much to Stiles’ annoyance—to bring up the incident at the next office happy hour.

Not that Stiles made it to many office happy hours, or out in general. Between the crazy hours at work, and studying for the bar exam, a night off wasn’t in his vocabulary anymore. Stiles’ social life consisted of Skype calls with his dad and his Beacon Hills crew, and the occasional late dinner with his roommate at the kitchen island. 

He knew clerking for Whitmore-Finstock wasn’t an eight to five job when he signed on, but he hadn’t been expecting quite so many eight to eight, or later, days. This would make four this week, and Tuesday he had been in at six to prepare for an early meeting. He hadn’t fallen into bed until almost midnight. He was only twenty-four, and he was already getting too old for this shit.

His back ached, his legs ached, and if he was being honest his dick ached. He was pretty sure one more email request from the entitled bastard down the hall was going to make his head explode. His ping-pong brain kept ricocheting back to the toy box under his bed, the brand-new bottle of pricey lube in his nightstand drawer, and his blissfully empty apartment. An empty apartment that he was now doubting he would see on this side of midnight. 

Without lifting his head, Stiles flailed out with one hand, hitting the down button on the elevator. The sooner he found those files, the sooner he could go the hell home.

  


* * *

  


Hours later, jacket over his arm, tie loose, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Stiles made his way back toward his desk. His vision was blurry, eyes gritty from dust and exhaustion. Rounding the corner to the row of cubicles, he suddenly discovered that yes, his night could still get worse. 

The toe of his shoe caught on nothing. As he stumbled, he clipped his shoulder hard on a cubicle wall. He couldn’t do anything but watch with a sinking heart as all 1500 pages of case precedent hit the bullpen floor, and exploded into a flurry of white disaster. 

Off balance and flailing, staying on his feet suddenly seemed like way too much effort for ten o’clock on a Friday night. Stiles gave up and landed on his knees in the middle of the scattered papers, hands limp at his sides. “Oh, fuck me sideways.”

“Kinky.” 

Stiles’ startled hard as a smooth voice purred from over his shoulder, before polished shoes stepped into his line of sight. His head jerked up, and his eyes skimmed over the immaculate dress pants and perfectly tailored jacket, then slowed to drink in broad shoulders and perfect Windsor-knotted tie centered at the base of the muscular neck. 

Finishing his unintentional and probably blatant appraisal, his eyes locked onto the smirking blue of Peter Hale, the firm’s newest senior partner. The man who was responsible for him being at work hours after everyone else had gone home. The man he had been cursing under his breath, and fantasizing about in equal measure for the last six months. 

Though Stiles knew he had been in the office all day, Mr. Hale’s tailored three-piece suit looked like he just took it off the hanger, buttons done and edges crisp. It hugged the lines of his body in ways that made Stiles feel like a disheveled mess, and did terrible things to his libido at the same time. 

Stiles realized all at once that he was frozen on the floor, his heart thumping, too off balance to scramble to his feet, and unable to look away. The corner of Mr. Hale's lips twitched up and he stepped forward, pristine dress shoes stopping half a stride too close for personal space.

“A bit forward, though. Don’t you think Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles found himself tipping his head back to maintain eye contact, lips parting automatically at the tense stretch of his neck. As he often did in Peter Hale’s presence, he struggled to keep track of the conversation. Did the man think Stiles was hitting on him? From the floor?

Mr. Hale’s eyes narrowed and Stiles sucked in a shaky breath, heat flooding his face and down his chest, his fingers and toes tingling in what was probably a full-body blush. If he hadn’t already been fighting low key arousal, he might have been able to ignore it. As it was, his position on his knees, Mr. Hale standing over him and forcing him to look up, was doing things to his brain that he usually did his best to avoid during the workday. 

Stiles’ hands scrambled across the floor briefly as he searched for something to hold onto. As if that would give him back control of the situation. His fingers closed on a file folder and he pulled it across his lap, hopefully hiding the fact that he was starting to go hard in his pants.

He wanted the new senior partner desperately. The lawyer was smart, ruthless, and undeniably sexy with his perfect looks, room-dominating presence, and devastatingly sarcastic commentary. Stiles found himself helplessly swinging from thinking about setting the bastard on fire just to shut him up, to restraining himself from crawling into his lap and rubbing against him like a cat.

Looking up at him now it was definitely the second one. He wanted Mr. Hale to grab him by the tie, pull him up, and devour his mouth. Wanted to cross his wrists behind his back, and lean forward to get his mouth on the no doubt impressive cock hidden in those well-cut trousers. Wanted Mr. Hale to sink hands into his hair, and press that cock down his throat until it cut off his breathing, and made his eyes tear as he tried to take it all in. Mr. Hale’s smirk widened. 

He was so screwed. 

Stiles forced himself to take a steady breath and hunched forward to gather more papers. He was embarrassingly hard now, breath trying to come too fast, skin flushed with heat and sweat beading on the back of his neck, along his collar. His voice, when he finally found it, was breathless and strangled. 

“Sorry, Mr. Hale, I didn’t know anyone was here.” He could already hear Lydia in his head, berating him for hitting on his boss and getting himself fired. It sent his heart racing faster. “I uh, promise I don’t. I mean, I try not to swear. Shit. That’s not— Um, professionalism is, like, super important. I would never suggest— I mean, say to a client that— I wasn’t implying that I want you to fuck me— Goddammit... I didn’t mean to say that.” Stiles could feel his face getting redder and prayed the floor would swallow him, or the papers would spontaneously catch fire and cause a distraction so he could escape. He risked a glance up and saw Mr. Hale with one eyebrow raised, lips twisted in an expression Stiles couldn’t identify. 

“Spontaneous combustion would be an impressive feat—if you’re asking my opinion. I'd be sufficiently distracted.” His lips twitched.

Stiles, resident expert at making situations worse, gaped at him for a minute, mouth opening and closing several times before any words made it free. “I need some Adderall.” As soon as he heard himself he groaned, covering his face, papers still clutched in one hand. “I mean, I have a prescription—I’m not abusing it or anything—it’s just, it wore off hours ago, and I have no filter on the good days. I can’t believe I said all of that out loud, and right now I’m really trying to stop myself—”

“Mr. Stilinski.”

“—from explaining the history of spontaneous human combustion—”

“Mr. Stilinski.”

“—and how it was probably just overlooked ignition sources that—”

“Stiles!”

Stiles froze, his mouth hanging opened, eyes wide and locked on Mr. Hale’s blue ones.

“Pick up the papers and put them in my office. Go home. You can organize them Monday.”

Stiles continued to stare, blanking. “You know my name?”

Mr. Hale let out a put-upon sigh and—in a move that was both impressive, and really required more warning than he gave—leaned down and took Stiles by the elbows, lifting him to unsteady feet. 

Stiles squeaked alarmingly and tried not to flail or drop his protective shield of papers. Luckily Mr. Hale maintained his hold for the long seconds it took for Stiles to get his legs under him, or he would have ended up right back on the floor. 

“Yes, Stiles. I know your name. Now, I want you to listen to me.” He moved one hand and gripped Stiles by the jaw, tilting his face up. His palm was hot, and Stiles couldn’t suppress a shiver at the sensation, fighting to focus on his words through a haze of heated arousal that wasn’t fading anytime soon. “What did I tell you to do?” Mr. Hale’s eyes were so close, and so, so blue. Stiles licked his lips and tried not to squirm.

“Pick up the papers?”

“And?”

“Put them in your office, then go home.”

Mr. Hale’s lips twitched up in another smirk. “Good boy.”

Stiles couldn’t suppress the full-body shudder that went through him at that, and he heard himself make a soft sound in the back of his throat. It was enough to pull him out of the moment. 

“Oh! Ah… shit.” Stiles took a hasty step backward. “Sorry sir...ah. Mr. Hale—”

“Peter.”

Stiles had a feeling his blush was permanent at this point. He ducked his head, trying futilely to hide it. “Peter,” he repeated dutifully. This entire conversation was definitely getting added to the three a.m. anxiety checklist.

Mr. Hale—Peter—reached out again and closed a hand around Stiles’ bare wrist, giving it a squeeze. Stiles’ eyes slid shut, and his brain went off-line. Everything was still and quiet at the sensation of hot skin and firm pressure against his hammering pulse. “Have a good night Stiles.”

A moment later he was gone, and Stiles was left reeling, cock hard and aching, papers still scattered at his feet, and the imprint of Peter’s fingers burning around his wrist. 

So, _so_ screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Warnings: There is the potential for consent issues throughout this fic, but mainly because Peter is Stiles' boss. I only warn because I know some people are sensitive to this, but I promise there's no coercion, or dubious consent. All of the characters are on board for everything that happens, but they don't really discuss it first. I feel like general warnings for Peter Hale should cover this, but I don't want to upset anyone either! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you see any errors or typos!
> 
> No additional warnings for this chapter.

Stiles shivered as he exited the Subway tunnels in a blast of too warm air and jogged up the wet stairs of the 23rd Street platform. He pulled his coat tighter around himself against the March chill. As embarrassing as his life sometimes was, he always found himself appreciative on his walk home. Working for Jackson’s father and mortifying himself in front of cocky senior partners aside, things had been worse. 

His commute these days was 20 minutes, door to door, and a straight shot on the subway. Worlds away from a year ago, when getting home meant at least a train, a bus, and a sketchy walk through a not great part of Brooklyn. And that was only if his last job of the day was in Lower Manhattan. It had been the best he could do while he struggled to pay back his college loans, scrape together money to study for and eventually take the bar exam, and just be a real independent adult for the first time in his life, with no safety net to fall back on. 

The tension had been wearing him down. The final straw was realizing one Sunday evening that his laptop had died a fiery, melted-mother-board-no-coming-back-from-it death. Skyping with his dad and friends had been getting him through the stress and loneliness, and, despite working his ass off, he couldn't afford to replace the one way he could see his dad’s face on a regular basis. 

In a fit of anxiety and depression he had called Lydia and vented for a solid hour about his pathetic situation, finally admitting that he was tired, hungry, and wanted to give up and move to a cabin in the woods somewhere, where he couldn't disappoint himself or anyone else. 

She hummed, made sounds of sympathy, and told him to suck it up and get his shit together—then showed up at the door of his sketchy studio two days later, a redheaded whirlwind of designer heels and give-no-fucks attitude. Her hug, followed by stern a smack on the arm, made him feel like he was anchored in his skin for the first time in months.

The first thing she helped him untangle was his work situation. He had been juggling three part-time jobs to pay his bills, leaving almost no time for sleep, let alone studying for the bar. The main problem, as Lydia reminded him, was that he was over-tired, causing his anxiety to send his brain in panicked loops, instead of actually letting him prioritize and focus on a solution. 

Two phone calls and half a dozen emails, and she had convinced her currently ex-boyfriend’s father to interview a new law clerk. Seven months of daily online applications hadn't managed to get him a single phone interview. Apparently, juggling his disastrous life was child’s play for the manipulative genius behind Beacon Hill High School's social calendar. 

Stiles nailed the interview, was offered more than his previous combined salary, and felt a little bit sick with how grateful he was. Lydia gave him shit for it, considering everything he had done for her during the cluster-fuck that was high school. She liked to claim they were even now.

The decision to let his feelings for Lydia turn into a rock-solid friendship that rivaled his brotherhood with Scott was one of the best he ever made. As Lydia herself pointed out when she told him he was taking her to prom, they'd have been a train-wreck as a couple. She would have eaten him alive, and Stiles, infatuated and lacking in self-preservation, would have handed her the knife and fork. 

They were much better and more balanced as friends. While Stiles occasionally required a kick in the ass to keep him focused or curb his impulsiveness, Lydia needed reminders that showing human kindness was actually healthy and satisfying. On the rare occasions they were off-the-rails together, Scott was pretty deft at reeling them back in with puppy-eyes, judgmental frowns, and impassioned speeches. They, in turn, were united in the goal of stopping Scott from making disastrously bad life choices.

Part two of Lydia’s project took a bit more convincing, but by the end of that week, Stiles was feeling sure-footed enough to agree that despite wanting his own place, things would be easier with a roommate. He still wasn't sure what blackmail Lydia used to get his roommate to put up with a hyperactive twenty-four-year-old. Some questions were better left unanswered.

Lydia was a goddess, and as Stiles dragged himself out of the cold and up the stairs to his apartment, he was once again pathetically grateful to have her in his life. He definitely owed her a Skype session this weekend. She would love mocking him to death over his horrifying encounters with Coach Finstock and Peter Hale. She would inevitably say something snarky and make him laugh at himself. Thankfully, telling her his embarrassing stories skewed them towards funny, instead of traumatizing. He reciprocated with the occasional not-so-subtle update on Jackass and whether he had gotten enough of his shit together for her to consider taking him back. 

He made a mental note to call her in the morning. Tonight he was taking time for himself. Lydia would approve.

As soon as he was through the door Stiles did his usual flaily just-got-home dance, which consisted of toeing off his shoes and kicking them aside, flicking on the lights with his elbow, and tossing his keys on the counter. His messenger bag got dropped next to the sofa, coat and suit jacket tossed over the back of one of the kitchen bar stools, tie discarded on top of the textbooks stacked on the coffee table. Stiles unbuttoned the top buttons of his dress shirt, took a deep breath and held it for a long moment, then let the tension of the week flow from his shoulders. 

Home. Finally.

He shuffled further into the kitchen, snagged a beer from the fridge, popped the cap, and drained half of it in three long gulps. The bitter liquid cooled his throat and warmed his stomach while he stood still, listening for movement. 

It was after eleven, but the apartment was quiet, just the normal rumble of late city traffic outside the window and the clicking of the radiators. He had an hour, maybe two, before his roommate got home. Not nearly as long as he had hoped, but anything was better than all of this build-up and no release. 

With his half-finished drink in hand, he made his way down the short hallway and glanced through the open door of the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made, a pair of sweatpants tossed across the foot. It was also blissfully empty. Stiles felt a little more of his tension fade at the visual proof his roommate was out. 

He was actually, totally alone for the first time in weeks. He let the prickling sensation of silence and isolation shudder under his skin. 

He adored his roommate, he really did, could even admit to having a bit of a crush. Had one well before accidentally walking in on him climbing out the shower—holy fuck was he hung.

It might be a little more than a crush. He might have admitted to wanting to lick him. More than once, and with more detail than Scott ever wanted to hear again. 

Despite the potential for licking, the man’s weird work schedule and constant presence in the apartment were at war with his ridiculous abs, ass-hugging jeans, and sweet-gruff personality. A war over which was going to turn Stiles into a quivering puddle of frenzied lust first.

Chris Argent wasn't even on the list of people Stiles thought he'd call roommate when he first moved to the city, but he hadn't regretted agreeing for a second. He should probably feel bad, lusting so hard after someone sixteen years older than him—a man with a daughter who was about to graduate high school—but claiming that was true would be more lying to himself than he was allowed.

Chris was a DILF, and Stiles spent most of their quiet evenings at home pretending he didn’t want to climb him like a tree. He may have admitted that to Lydia, who then laughed her face off at his ability to complicate his life. 

Scott, with his embarrassing crush on Chris' eighteen-year-old daughter, unequivocally did _not_ want to hear about Chris and licking _or_ climbing. Ever. 

With her equally huge crush on Scott, Allison—who lived on the west coast with her mother—thought it was “very sweet”. Allison was made of sunshine and rainbows, and Stiles hoped one day—when everyone was very legal and done with college—she and Scott would have happy-rainbow-puppy-babies together. 

Chris wasn’t a fan of Stiles saying things like that out loud. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was the thought of his baby girl having babies, or that he just really couldn’t stand Scott. The way his face contorted at any mention of the two getting together was so amusing that Stiles made sure to bring it up at least once a week.

Stiles was kind of an asshole.

Chris deserved it for spending so much time with him. 

Stiles decided to indulge in a little private exhibitionism on the way to the shower. He pulled the tails of his shirt loose with a little shimmy and finished unbuttoning it, stripping as he drained the last of his beer. The shirt ended up thrown down the hall towards his bedroom, pants and boxers dropped on the bathroom floor. The empty bottle got dropped in the trash as he unlocked his phone and thumbed through to his _Empty House_ playlist. 

Volume set to max, he left the phone propped in a glass on the bathroom counter. As the opening bass riff thudded from the makeshift speaker, he cranked on the shower, aiming for a temperature just shy of scalding. The pipes clanged for a moment, but the music was loud enough to hear Freddie and Bowie, and that’s all he wanted as he stepped under the spray.

God, he needed this. He could feel the individual muscles in his neck, shoulders, and jaw start to melt, the water hot enough to turn his skin stinging and sensitive. With his eyes shut and his head tipped back, he gave himself a minute to just breathe. Steam filled his lungs, warming him from the inside, and making his brain fog pleasantly. 

He would probably sell his soul in exchange for lifetime access to a really good shower. No questions asked, just point him in the direction of a rainfall head and body jets, and he would sign the papers. His current bathroom wasn’t soul-selling quality, but it had damn good water pressure for the city and hardly ever went cold before he was done.

With a sigh that was nearly a moan, he straightened and grabbed his favorite shower gel, sliding soapy hands across his abs and up his torso. He brushed his fingers over the fox tattoo curling up his side in a brief "hello". The piece, with its oranges, grays, and sharp black feet, always made him smile. The first time he saw it after it was complete was the first time in years that he felt comfortable in his own skin.

His fingers left the tattoo and ghosted over his nipples. He let out a breath at how sensitive they already were, pebbled and hard under his touch. It wasn't going to take much to set him off. 

It was going to be so good. Maybe he would stick to his original plan of seeing how many times he could come before he passed out from exhaustion.

Or maybe he could hold back, make himself desperate for it. Tease himself to the edge and then stop, over and over, until his orgasm made his mind go blank and overwhelmed. It would be really fucking amazing to just shut off for a while. Stiles licked water droplets off his lips, moaning for real as the fantasy took hold.

He let his fingers tease back down, dipping into the hollows of ribs and hip bones as his brain played out the scenario. It was a coin flip these days who his fantasy partner would be. Unsurprisingly, this time Peter Hale had hooked himself under his skin. 

With all the standing too close, the touches and the purred words, Peter was definitely the type to tease. _Good boy_ , Stiles heard again, echoing in his head, and this time he didn’t restrain his desperate whimper. The man was so devastatingly hot and infuriatingly cocky. If Stiles didn’t get to suck him off, he was probably going to punch him in the face. 

He skimmed the tips of his fingers over his cock, hanging flushed and heavy between his thighs, then moved them away. Peter, the smug asshole, wouldn’t let him touch, would get off on making him desperate. Would get him worked up and begging, before allowing hands where he really wanted them. 

Stiles let one hand slide back to brush against his hole. Maybe Peter would rim him, pin him against the wall and lick him open. The thought made him whine, high in the back of his throat, and press his face against the cool tile as his hips arched involuntarily into the touch. Peter would be just a little bit rough, grabbing Stiles and positioning him where he wanted, legs spread, hips tilted up and back.

Panting into the steamy air, Stiles fumbled quickly for more soap, letting his slippery touches become more insistent. His fingertips dipping inside and away again as he remembered the strength of Peter’s hands when he lifted him to his feet, the grip on his chin tilting his face up to meet brilliant blue eyes. 

He slowed his movements so he could enjoy the little jolts of pleasure, the water stinging against his back and hole, his free hand roaming everywhere except his quickly hardening cock. 

With his eyes shut, it was easy to imagine it was Peter’s hands teasing, pressing against his hip bones, manicured nails scraping gently against his belly and up, barely enough to sting, pinching a nipple, circling his throat and squeezing slowly, hard enough to make his head swim— 

Stiles pulled his hands away from his neck and ass with a groan, and forced his fists against the wall. He was shaking, hips straining, flushed with heat, and gasping into the cool space against the tiles. His dick had gone from half-mast to rock-hard in seconds, and he’d barely done anything. He was going to have to slow everything down if he wanted this to last for more than a few minutes.

Fighting to control his breathing, he stepped back under the spray of the shower, scrubbed his body down with the absolute minimum of touching, and rinsed the remaining soap away. His skin stung a little bit from the heat, and he squirmed in place at the sudden mental image of Peter dragging nails over his thighs and making it worse.

Mixing some pain with his pleasure was a _Yes-Please-Green_ situation as far as Stiles was concerned, and he had a feeling Peter would be right there with him when it came to dishing it out. 

The trip back to his bedroom was a blur. He managed to get his phone plugged in and silenced, but his sheets ended up more than a little damp as he fell into bed, towel crumpled on the floor. He didn’t care. It was just water, and he would probably need to change the sheets in the morning either way. 

Leaning down, he fumbled under the bed. It only took a second to drag out the shoebox hiding his favorite dildo. The toy was on the thin side, but long and with just the right amount of curve to it. He dropped it next to him so that he could get the new bottle of fancy lube opened, cursing himself for not planning ahead on that one. For how much the stuff cost it shouldn’t take teeth, scissors, and a law degree to get it opened.

Finally peeling off the various safety seals, Stiles flopped back and kicked the blankets down, out of range of any messes. He may be changing the sheets in the morning, but he didn’t want to be forced to do laundry at midnight while he was shaky and weak from how good this orgasm was going to be. At least he wasn’t _totally_ incapable of foresight.

The lube was cold against his overheated skin, and he took a second to warm it before reaching between his legs. He couldn’t contain a groan at the first touch, and the muscle twitched against his fingertips. 

He was so ready, but he made himself slow down again, tracing the slick around and around but not in, enjoying the helpless reactions of his body as he arched and squirmed. It was definitely a good thing Chris wasn’t home, because he was pretty sure he was going to be screaming when he finally came. The idea of being caught flicked across his mind and made him flush hard, shuddering with imagined embarrassment. 

What would Chris say if he walked in now and found Stiles, sprawled against his pillows, naked, legs spread and on display? Stiles’ back flexed at the mental image, his fingers and toes clenching, twisting against the sheets. Would Chris apologize and leave—or would he stay in the doorway and watch?

Stiles eased his fingertip inside and groaned at the sensitivity. He could imagine Chris' face, that blue-eyed focus narrowed to Stiles as he spread his legs further and pulled one knee up to show himself off. Stiles’ breath came faster, little excited gasps escaping with each movement as he pressed the finger in past the first knuckle. 

Would Chris like what he saw? He might stalk slowly to the edge of the bed and pause to see if Stiles would tell him no, then place a large, work-calloused hand on Stiles’ raised knee and press it higher. He would wait, eyes fixed on Stiles’ fingers as he pressed two inside, the stretch sliding up his spine.

“Chris!” Stiles gasped, then groaned, flushed with mortification at the fantasy, but unwilling to let it go when it was so, so good. He shoved his fingers in as far as he could and yelped at the just barely there brush to his prostate. The angle was bad, and his eyes were tearing in frustration. Chris wouldn’t help him, though, would just rub soothing circles into the inside of his knee with a calloused thumb, patient as Stiles writhed and tried to get the touch where he wanted it. Maybe Chris would talk to him, encouraging murmurs and growled praise as he fucked himself on his fingers.

Stiles was moaning desperately now, unable to control the volume as his body started to tighten, heat rolling through him. Except Chris would make him follow through on his original plan, gripping his wrist at the last moment and holding it still.

Stiles froze, gasping for air as he pictured Chris’ small, teasing smile. _Not yet_. He dragged his fingers from his body with a tortured groan and grabbed the dildo, fumbling with the lube coating his hands, before positioning it against his relaxed entrance. Waiting for Chris’ permission, he rubbed it in shaky, teasing circles as his body eased back from the edge yet again.

There was pre-come pooled on his belly from his untouched erection, whimpers and cut off words pressing against the back of his teeth. He probably couldn’t tease himself a third time—he was too close, wound too tight. He already felt the tingling in his toes that signaled his approaching orgasm.

He made himself wait a full sixty seconds. Then, with a slow twist of his wrist, he started to press the dildo inside, smooth plastic stretching him open and sending shivers through his body. He keened, high and loud as he reveled in the sensation of finally being full. Fantasy-Chris chuckled in his ear.

Heated chills ran through him, making him tremble. All he wanted was to writhe against the dildo until the chills gathered into sparks and exploded. His skin was damp and his breath shuddered in his chest. He was so close. Chris was braced over him, not touching except to press his legs up further, blue eyes dark and possessive. With a desperate moan, Stiles twisted his wrist again and pulled the toy nearly all the way out. He couldn’t wait anymore.

A familiar sound was filtering through the blinding haze of his arousal, and somehow his underused self-preservation instincts recognized it. He froze.

Keys. The sound was keys in the door and a voice. Stiles jerked and yelped as the dildo pulled free, but was immediately distracted from the discomfort by his heart frantically trying to beat its way out of his chest. Oh god, what time was it? Fuck, shit, fuck. The glowing numbers on the clock said nearly one a.m. Chris was home. He was naked in bed and fantasizing about his super hot DILF roommate, who had just walked into the apartment and was now moving around the kitchen.

Stiles flung himself into motion as silently as humanly possible. He shoved the dildo under his pillow, and then scrambled to reach the discarded blankets and drag them to his shoulders. Lying as still as he could while shaking with arousal—lube wet on his fingers and smeared on his chest—he tried to breathe evenly. His pulse was throbbing in his ass and pounding in his ears. It was so loud, he thought a bit hysterically, Chris might hear it if he got too close.

Chris wouldn’t open his door, the man was his roommate, not his father. Still, Stiles couldn’t convince his racing heart to slow. He was panting, and somehow the sudden terror had gotten mixed up with his arousal, and he was still hard as a rock and leaking pre-come. 

He rolled carefully, quietly to his side, scrubbing his shaky fingers against the damp, twisted sheets, and tried to smother himself with a pillow. 

How was this his life?

He could hear Chris coming down the hallway and his rasping breath caught in his throat. 

There was a thump directly outside his door. A pause. A muffled grunt, and then the murmur of Chris’ voice, low and rough. “Quit it. You’ll wake him up.”

Stiles froze, eyes wide against the pillowcase. His lungs burned, his dick throbbed painfully. Something hot and wet trickled past his temple, sweat probably, or tears, with the way his body was revolting.

Chris wasn’t alone. What Stiles thought was a work event must have been a date. A date that went very well, if it was going to end in a hook-up, one thin wall away from Stiles’ bed. He clenched his fists in the sheets and forced himself to let his breath out slowly. Silently. It was fine. Everything was fine.

The door of the other bedroom clicked shut, the sound immediately followed by the rattle of something being pressed against it, and a low, pleased moan. 

Oh God, Stiles realized with dawning horror, it was not fine. He was going to hear Chris having sex. He was going to know how the man he lived with, was in lust with, talked in bed, and what he sounded like when he came.

He could hear them breathing, fabric rustling, a gasp, a grunt, and another thud, a zipper slowly being lowered, pants falling to the ground with the clink of a belt. Who the hell designed this building? The walls might as well have been tissue paper. It sounded like they were right next to him, and his mind easily supplied the details of Chris’ hands on curved hips, sliding over silky-smooth skin. Of long, graceful limbs, and manicured nails scratching against the nape of his neck.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby.” Stiles flinched. Chris’ voice was a guttural growl that he barely recognized. “You can take it.” There was a moan and then a wet, muffled sound.

Stiles shuddered at Chris' low chuckle and the familiar wet slurping that followed, his cheeks burning in a blush. Chris was murmuring encouragement, little cut off phrases and hums of pleasure. The slight gagging from a too deep thrust reached Stiles’s ears, and he squeezed his eyes shut more tightly as his mouth watered in reaction. There was a whimper building in his throat, and he bit into his pillow, hard, to fight it off. 

He wanted it to be him on his knees for Chris so badly that it made his eyes burn and his chest ache. He was desperate to show Chris just how good he could be. Stiles had a freaking fantastic mouth—according to more than one college hook-up—and he loved sucking cock. Plus, after the unintentional ogling he did when he walked in on Chris in the bathroom, he was drooling for it.

How was he supposed to lie here and listen to this, cock already painfully hard, lube just inches away? Chris had to know how thin the walls were. This was cruel and unusual. The universe was mocking him, he was sure of it.

“What do you want? Are you going to let me work you open and fuck you?” Stiles’ breath hitched at the tension in Chris’ voice, unwavering in the demand for an answer. The words flooded his senses like they were for him. _Yes_ , he wanted to shout, wanted to open his mouth and beg for it. Grinding his teeth into the pillow wasn’t cutting it anymore. Instead, he lifted his hand and bit into the meaty part of his thumb, hard, trying to distract himself with pain. He tasted like lube, his skin salty with pre-come.

There was more movement in the other room, then something heavy bouncing against the mattress and the jingling of a belt, leather sliding through the loops. “Well? Let me hear you.” Stiles waited, sucking mindlessly on his hand. Seconds ticked by.

The sharp smack of skin on skin, followed by a grunt, made him flinch. 

“Well?” 

A second smack, and a bitten-off shout. His dick twitched in reaction to the imagined sting.

“Yes! Fuck me!” The rough voice was unfamiliar and decidedly male. 

Heat like static electricity exploded across Stiles’ skin and he flushed, shaking in the darkness of his bedroom at the rush of adrenaline. His heart, already rabbit-quick, took off like a racehorse, making him feel like it was shaking his whole body.

Oh, holy shit. That was another man in Chris’ bedroom.

Chris liked men, slept with men. Stiles’ brain swung wildly from despair to elation and right back again. Stiles was a man. He actually had a chance. Except Chris had never shown any interest in him. Went out and picked someone up at a bar after work. A stranger. It could be a one night stand. Maybe he just had to wait, convince Chris he didn’t need to pick up strangers at bars when he had a desperately willing body at home. But he called the other man, baby. You don’t call a hook-up, baby, do you? What if it really was a date, and more serious than Stiles realized? What if he had missed his chance before he even knew he had one?

There was a low cry of pleasure from the other room, the soft slap of skin meeting skin, and Stiles gasped in reaction. Too loud.

All of the noise and movement stopped. “Did you hear that?” Chris asked, his voice strained.

Stiles shook from fear this time, heart hammering away against the inside of his rib cage. He might actually die if Chris found him now.

There was a long pause, drawn out over what felt like minutes. Someone shifted. There was a hiss of breath, followed by a pained grunt and the sound of limbs sliding against fabric.

“You’re paranoid. Now shut up and fuck me.” Stiles heard another grunt, nearly a growl, and then the slap of skin on skin started again, quickly becoming a rhythm, echoed by heavy breathing and punched-out cries. 

Stiles didn’t dare to breathe until the panting became loud enough to drown out his own. When he did eventually relax, it was with a tiny whine that he couldn’t hold back. His head was spinning. This was a new low for sure. He clutched his pillow to his chest, fingers digging into the fluff as he let the sounds wash over him. He was still hard and aching, but the desire to do anything about it was long gone, leaving behind a sick, squirming feeling in his gut. He couldn't tell if it was hurt, embarrassment, jealousy, or just his anxiety screwing with him, and he was too exhausted to figure it out.

Shutting his eyes and burrowing further under the blankets, he pulled the pillow over his head, trying to drown out the sounds of pleasure. It didn’t help much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your amazing comments and kudos on the first chapter! This is my first time writing or posting fanfic, and the support really made my week!
> 
> It took me 5000 words, but I made it to the smut! When I started this and asked my friend to beta, I told her it was probably going to be under 10k. I was so, so wrong. I'm sorry Kelly! I blame the feels that are trying to creep in (also, I can't get Peter to behave).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! Have a very, very long chapter, some snarky characters, and maybe a little bit of action (finally!).
> 
>  
> 
> **Additional tags/warnings at the end. Please check those first if you are worried!**
> 
>  
> 
> Also, happy birthday to my amazing beta reader Nightwalker! Thank you so much for helping me make this story function, proofreading all my hundreds of edits, and for not running screaming when my 10k PWP turned into whatever this is! You are a saint!

The sound of the shower cutting on was loud enough to startle him awake the next morning. Stiles blinked at the ceiling, wondering for a blurry minute why he felt like death. It was the weekend, he should be rested and relaxed, enjoying a well-deserved chance to sleep in. His memory didn’t take long to catch up. 

The men in the next room had finally gone quiet around two, but Stiles had fought for every minute of sleep, waking at imagined sounds, half terrified they would start up again, and he wouldn't be able to stop himself from screaming in frustration—or worse, jerking-off—and giving away that he was listening.

The clock said it was still early, only a little after eight. He was about to roll over and attempt sleep, yet again, when his stomach let out a pained rumble, pointedly reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since his granola-bar-lunch the day before. It was stupid to not stop for something on the way home, but he had been too worked up—for all the good that had done. 

Shoving the blankets away he sat up slowly, face screwing into a grimace at the sensation of itchy pre-come on his stomach, and half dried lube between his ass cheeks. Gross. He snagged his still-damp towel from the floor and scrubbed off what he could, skin crawling uncomfortably at the drag of terrycloth. 

Everything felt tight and sensitive—like the sharp edges of arousal, but without the heat curling in his belly—and Stiles just wanted to stand under the shower until the feeling stopped. But of course, the shower was occupied. The only positive of this day so far was that he wasn’t dealing with morning wood. That might have sent him straight into a round of embittered tears.

A quick look through his clean laundry pile—on the opposite side of the room from the dirty laundry pile—produced a pair of overly-long, plaid sleep pants with frayed hems, his softest BHPD shirt, and his favorite, red-zippered hoodie. The clothes didn't help the crawling-out-of-his-skin sensation, but they didn't make it worse either.

It had been a while since he felt this—his skin sensitive and desperate. He grimaced, rubbing his palms up and down his arms briskly, trying to will it away. Most of the time he could ignore it. New York was a busy city, and it was hard to go a day without someone brushing up against, or outright running into him. Occasionally though, the feeling that he hadn't touched another person in months would creep up on him. His first year at college had been the worst, until he discovered house parties and the sexual flexibility of most coeds. 

If he’d been able to get off the night before it might have been okay, but that was pointless wishful thinking now. A year ago he would have gone to a bar and tried to pull before it got to this point, but recently he had just been too busy, and honestly, he hadn't had the interest or the energy. Which meant he hadn't gotten laid in an embarrassingly long time, and friendly hugs and cuddles had been months ago, when he took two days off and went home for Christmas. 

So, if his skin was aching for the heat of another person's hands, and the memory of Peter Hale's grip on his wrist and jaw made him shiver because it just _wasn't enough_ , it wasn’t all that surprising.

The wood floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he shuffled down the hallway towards the smell of coffee. His sleep-deprived mind was fuzzy, unwilling to wake up without a major caffeine fix. It didn’t even occur to him to wonder who had started the coffee pot, until he rounded the corner and was confronted with a back he didn’t recognize. 

Stiles came to a halt as his brain stalled on the shirtless expanse of skin and defined muscle. The man reached up to snag a mug from the cabinet, and Stiles' eyes slid helplessly over the wet dream worthy physique—neatly trimmed dark hair, mussed from sleep, a thick, lickable neck, broad shoulders that narrowed in a delicious V to the low-slung sleep pants, which were just barely clinging to the man’s hips, hiding what looked like a fabulous ass and strong thighs. Holy fuck, Chris was a lucky, lucky bastard.

“How do you like your coffee, sweetheart?”

If Stiles hadn’t already been stalled in the doorway he would have gone still as a statue. Because while he didn’t recognize the broad back of the man in front of him, that voice starred in at least half of his fantasies.

“Peter?!”

At least that’s what Stiles tried to say, because somehow, the same entitled asshole who made his life unnecessarily difficult on a daily basis, was currently half-naked in his kitchen. Unfortunately, what came out was more like the croaking whine of a bobcat. He knew this because he heard them all the time in the woods back home. They got close to the house sometimes, and Stiles was fascinated by the different sounds they could make. He liked to lie in bed on warm nights with his windows open and listen to them. The forest noises soothing enough to lull his buzzing mind into silence. He should probably look into getting one of those ambient noise machines for the nights when the city was too loud, or his roommate brought guests over.

Guests like Peter Hale. 

Chris was fucking Peter Hale.

He had _listened_ to Chris fucking Peter Hale.

Peter Hale, who was now smirking at him from across the kitchen.

His brain may have gotten a little derailed by his sudden panic.

Peter had turned and was leaning against the counter with a steaming mug of coffee. Stiles stared as he took a slow, deliberate sip, then raised an eyebrow. “Good morning to you, too.”

Stiles opened his mouth, a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue, most of them amounting to _what the hell?_ , when his brain stalled yet again because Peter’s _nipples were pierced_. The next sound out of Stiles’ mouth was more dying whale than bobcat. 

Peter’s smirk turned absolutely wicked as he settled more firmly against the cabinets. “I hope we didn’t wake you last night?”

He phrased it like a question, but for the life of him, Stiles didn’t know how to answer. His mouth opened and closed several times, and he felt the prickling heat of a blush start at his hairline and sweep across his cheeks, then down his neck and chest. He blinked stupidly as his eyes watered from the force of it, breath going tight in his chest. 

Peter’s eyes flicked down, then back up again in blatant appraisal. He took another sip of coffee, still waiting for a response.

Stiles wavered as embarrassment formed a ball in his stomach, fight or flight instincts trying to kick in as he shoved them back down. This was his boss. His go-to defenses of attacking with scathing sarcasm, or running away, were not at all appropriate here. He needed a plan C, fast. He coughed, hopefully clearing his throat enough to make actual words come out.

“Nope,” he chirped. “Some asshat thought ten p.m. was acceptable quitting time for the minions.” _Oh crap_ , he thought as his mouth continued without permission. “Overtime on a Friday night is just stellar after a seventy hour work week, don’t you think?” 

That was definitely sarcasm. That was not part of the plan. He should not be allowed to make plans before coffee. He needed a new plan. Distraction. Distraction was a good plan. “I got home, jerked off, and passed the fuck out.” 

Oh God. He turned towards the fridge, flinching into motion as his heart raced. That was a terrible distraction. What the hell was he thinking? Did he really just tell his boss he spent his evening masturbating?

“Oh, really?” The senior partner’s voice was practically a purr. “How interesting.”

Stiles had to grip the handle of the refrigerator door, to keep his knees from giving out. He choked back a response that would probably just be a whimper of defeat. Yanking the fridge open quickly, he made a show of searching for something to eat, as his still slow brain scrambled for the right response, but remained horrifyingly blank.

Peter paused, then continued in a different tone, obviously laughing at the mess of a boy trying to hide from him in the vegetable drawer. “Your boss sounds like a slave-driver. Maybe you should tell him to go fuck himself?”

Stiles froze, then nearly choked on his startled laughter, in disbelief that Peter was offering him a way out of this disastrous conversation. Trying to breathe, he risked a glance over his shoulder. 

The other man was staring, eyes locked firmly on Stiles’ ass, bent over the celery and tomatoes, as he continued. “Well, I wouldn’t recommend using those words exactly, but I’ve been told asserting yourself in regards to outlandish requests shows strength of character. Something the senior partners look for in associates.”

A rush of want—mixed with more than a little gratitude—pushed down the panic in his brain, and Stiles decided to take hold of the life-line with both hands. He grabbed the milk and straightened, pushing the fridge shut. After a steadying breath and a quick mental pep-talk, he turned to face the other man was a plastered on a smirk, his hands twitching a little around the carton in an effort not to fidget. “Is that professional advice, or a job offer?”

The lawyer chuckled and Stiles felt himself sway closer briefly before quickly steadying again. This was not the time to get distracted, though he couldn’t help sneaking a look as the laughter made Peter’s rock hard abs flex and his piercings catch the light. Saliva pooled in his mouth at the desire to taste metal and hot skin. He swallowed it down, throat clicking.

“I think that depends on you, sweetheart.” Peter glanced at the milk in Stiles’ hands, then turned and took down another coffee mug, setting in on the counter and filling it. 

Peter slid the mug over when Stiles walked closer and grabbed the sugar and a spoon to start doctoring his drink. “Well, aren’t you just a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen?” he snarked, glancing sideways and raising an eyebrow.

Peter blinked at him, then a burst of laughter left his lips, loud and honest. “Touché.” He leaned his hip against the counter, watching Stiles with the same narrow-eyed focus he usually directed at complex case files. As if Stiles was a particularly interesting puzzle that Peter was just starting to put together. Stiles squirmed a little, trying to hide his pleasure at the reaction.

“I wonder what Finstock would say if I filed a complaint.” He flashed a grin down at his coffee, before bringing it to his lips to take a sip with a little contented hum. 

“I imagine he’d do his best to punch me in the face. He’s rather protective of his ‘team’ if you haven’t noticed. Whitmore, on the other hand, may try to bury you in the basement to avoid a suit against the firm.”

“Oh, are we threatening the complainant now?” He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “I’m disappointed, Peter.” Stiles relaxed against the counter, mirroring him.

Peter leaned closer, his voice dropping to a timbre that belonged in someone’s bedroom. “Don’t worry, darling, I’m more than willing to protect you from bullies like David Whitmore. All you have to do is ask.”

It was Stiles’ turn to laugh, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “You’re ridiculous. Why would you protect me from someone trying to protect you?”

Peter’s tongue darted out to wet his lips when Stiles met his eyes again. “Because he wouldn’t be doing it to protect me. I enjoy playing politics too much for David’s taste. Besides, that kind of leverage is currency. I help you, you owe me, while at the same time Whitmore’s hold on the firm becomes more tenuous. It gets me a step closer to name partner.” He took another sip of coffee. “Also, you make fantastic eye candy, and I enjoy indulging.”

Stiles stared for a moment, dumbfounded. “Oh my God, you’re such an asshole!” He could feel another blush staining his cheeks. “You can’t turn a harassment complaint around to punish your rivals and improve your position. No one is that good.”

Even though he could see right through the patented smirk, to the wicked humor in Peter’s eyes, Stiles felt his blush deepen. The lawyer turned on his $500-an-hour smile. “I'm definitely that good.”

Stiles snorted at the cheezy line. “The hell you are.”

“I can prove it to you.” The smarmy smile grew, and Peter rolled his shoulders back as if getting ready for battle, muscles flexing.

Stile would deny to the ends of the earth that he had to swallow hard to keep from literally drooling, and that his response was a little bit breathless as he took the oh so obvious bait. “Yeah? How?”

“Come to dinner with me,” Peter gave Stiles a leering once over that, despite the absurdity of the situation, actually made his toes curl, “And if _you’re_ good, I may tell you.”

Stiles gaped, then rallied, trying to dodge his way out of this before he did something really embarrassing, like grab the asshole and try to suck on his tongue, or other body parts. “Oh, hell no.” He took a subtle step back. “You're such a creeper.”

The man’s eyes went dark and he stepped forward, maintaining the distance between them. “Really Stiles? That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

“You can’t possibly tell me no one’s called you on your bullshit before.”

Peter tilted his head and Stiles felt a shiver go down his spine, suddenly afraid he may have pushed the banter too far.

“No one but family, and Christopher, of course.”

Stiles flinched at the mention of Chris. 

_Stupid._

His hormone riddled brain had managed to ignore the fact that Peter was the same person Stiles had been listening to through the wall, so jealous of, only hours before. That his boss, and his roommate, shared some kind of history, might be dating, were definitely sleeping together, and were both solidly off-limits. He didn’t have a chance with either of them. For a minute he had let himself imagine that whatever this was with Peter was actually going somewhere, but it wasn’t—and there were so many reasons why it couldn’t.

Which meant either Stiles was reading too much into harmless flirting, or more likely, Peter, the asshole, was mocking him. It wasn’t real. He bit his lip and turned his face away, knowing anything he said would only encourage Peter to continue the game. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t hurt Chris like this. 

“You are fascinating, Stiles.” Peter reached out and touched his cheek. 

He was so distracted by his self-recrimination that he actually gasped and fumbled his coffee mug, heart skipping a beat. Peter had him crowded against the counter, his thumb stroking the curve of Stiles’ cheekbone, fingers cupping his jaw, breath warm against his ear. 

Stiles wasn't prepared for the touch on his still buzzing skin. When did Peter get so close? His heart-rate ratcheted up and he swayed, lips parting with the desire to lean across the distance between them. _Don’t._ He told himself, feeling his throat start to close, his breath going tight with anxiety. _Stop._

“What are you doing?” Chris’ voice, sharp and disapproving, couldn’t have been more poorly timed.

Stiles yelped and dropped his coffee mug. He didn’t hear it shatter, or feel the hot liquid splash his bare feet and soak the cuffs of his pants. His heart, already fast, started hammering in his chest and drowned it out. 

What the hell _was_ he doing? A tidal wave of helpless panic crashed down on top of him and it made him choke. He nearly kissed Peter, his boss, in his kitchen, in front of the man's boyfriend. How was he going to explain himself? He was a terrible person. He despised it when assholes hit on people they knew were taken, and now he was one of them. He wouldn’t blame Chris if he never wanted to see him again. He should move out now. Before Chris made him leave.

There wasn't enough air in the room. (What's wrong? Stiles?)

Peter had just been teasing, and Stiles tried to kiss him. Even though he knew Peter was with Chris. Stiles obviously failed at social cues, and made up things that weren't real, just like when he was a kid. Peter would be annoyed with him, maybe angry. What if Peter decided he was more trouble than he was worth? What if he fired him?

Oh god. He was probably _already_ fired. How was he going to pay his bills if he was fired? The possible ramifications were suffocating him, and his brain ran in frantic loops, trying to find a way to salvage this disaster. 

He couldn't breathe. (Stiles!)

If Peter fired him he’d be broke. He hardly had any savings, and his old jobs would never take him back. He had loan payments and health insurance premiums. He wouldn’t be able to pay rent, much less a deposit on a new place. 

He was going to throw up. (Stop. Breathe.)

He couldn’t afford to live anywhere in the city. He didn’t know anyone or have any friends that would take him in. He would be homeless, living on a Subway grate in midtown. No one would ever hire a homeless guy with a law degree and no bar exam. 

Awareness of his body was a fuzzy distant thing, but he knew he was in trouble, and he needed to get away, somewhere he could think. He tried to move and stumbled. Hands grabbed at him, sending him twisting, fighting. His lungs were on fire and it felt like a truck was crushing his chest, his frantically beating heart trying to dislodge it. Was someone attacking him? He didn’t mean it, really. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. It was all a mistake. He didn’t want to leave.

Stiles tried to curl in on himself as arms wrapped solidly around his torso, pinning his hands to his sides and lifting him off his feet. He tried to yell, but all that came out was a ragged sob. The room was spinning and, unable to focus, he squeezed his eyes shut.

“What the hell did you do, Hale? Did you plan this?”

“You’re the one who snuck up on him, _Argent_.”

“Bullshit, I know you, and I know Stiles. You were pushing. What did you say?”

“If you know so much, why don’t you tell me?”

Stiles whined, high in his throat, wanting to stop the angry words tossed back and forth over his head. Everything hurt. He was drowning, breathing through a straw, or a wet paper bag, or something. His heart was going to explode. Maybe he was having a heart attack. Wasn’t shortness of breath a symptom? Heart problems ran in his family. His dad had an episode at thirty-eight. He was probably having a heart attack.

“Hush, baby, just breathe. Listen to me. Take a deep breath.”

“That’s not going to work. If he could take a breath, he would.”

“Shut up, Peter, you aren’t helping.”

“Well, neither are you. Turn him this way.”

Hot hands gripped Stiles face, smearing tears, and forcing his head up from where it was tucked against his chest. When had he started crying? He didn’t want to cry in front of Chris and Peter. He tried to suck another breath into his frozen lungs, but there was no air. 

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

He forced his eyes open, but couldn't focus, grey squiggles were dancing in his vision, and he squeezed them shut again.

“Alright, plan C, then.” 

Stiles wished he had the breath to laugh, because trust Peter Hale to have multiple plans for someone who was suffocating to death from a heart attack.

Lips pressed against his, sudden and shocking. A tongue, slick, hot, traced the soft inside of his mouth, flicking lightly against his teeth and asking for entrance.

Stiles felt everything in his brain screech to a slow-motion stop as the mouth pressed firmly to his—once, twice, a third time, demanding—before he got with the program and tried to return the kiss, tongue chasing after the taste of bitter coffee and heat.

Peter pulled away, hands still cupping his face, blue eyes holding his when he forced them open. “There you are.” The lawyer smirked at him. “Good boy. Now I want you to count for me.”

“Count?” Stiles’ voice was a croak, barely recognizable as words, forced through a windpipe that was still too tight.

“Yes. I want you to tell me five things you can see.”

It took a minute for the request to trickle through the white noise in Stiles’ brain, his attention-catching on Peter’s too-blue gaze. “Eyes.” he forced out.

“Very good. That’s one.”

Okay. He could do this. He searched for something else. “Hair.”

“Two.” Thumbs stroked his cheekbones, and Stiles let out a shuddering breath before sucking another in, too fast. He started to choke again, panic welling. “Easy, sweetheart.”

“Skin. H—hands.” Because those were Peter’s hands on his face, holding him steady.

“Mouth.” Peter’s mouth, lips that had been kissing him seconds ago quirked up, pleased.

“Lovely, darling. Now I need five more. We’re going to count five things, five times.”

Stiles stared, processing for a moment before forcing his eyes away to search for objects. “Coffee.” A pause and an encouraging nod from Peter. “Stove, clock, fridge.” The air was coming more easily, the loop of panic in his brain losing its grip. “Coffee pot?”

“That’s fine. It counts.”

He looked towards the living room. “Couch. TV.” Large and easy to pick out. “Coat. Shoes.” Just where he left them the night before. “K..keys.” His throat wanted to close up again, and he shut his eyes, breathing through it carefully. The fingers on his face tightened a little, turning his head away from the keys on the counter, and thoughts of having to leave.

“Keep going.” The words were calm, firm, dragging his eyes open and his focus back.

“Jacket. Tie.” He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Three more. “Books. Notes. Pen.”

Peter was smiling at him, looking smug. Stiles' locked muscles finally started to release, and he noticed the arms wrapped securely around him for the first time. One was across his chest, and the other around his waist, trapping his hands against his sides. He looked down and blinked. “Arms.” His legs were actually dangling, held an inch or two off the ground. “Feet. Floor.” He shut his eyes briefly and let his head fall back against the firm shoulder behind him with a murmured. “Chris.” Opening them again he locked on the blue-eyed man looking on in satisfaction. “Peter.”

“Nicely done. How do you feel?”

“Okay.” Really, he felt like he might be drifting, detached and probably a little bit out of his head. That was the worst panic attack he’d had in years. He thought he should probably ask to be put down, but he was drowning in the best way now, a solid body pressed against his back, strong arms holding him, secure and inescapable, hot hands cupping his face, thumbs stroking across his flushed cheeks. He wanted to soak in the feeling for the next hundred years. 

“Can we move to the couch, baby?” Chris’ voice rumbled in his ear, and he nodded in response with a twinge of embarrassment that Chris was still holding him up.

“I can walk.”

“There’s glass on the floor.”

Oh. That was right. He dropped his coffee. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” The heat of Chris’ breath washed over his temple and he shivered.

Peter stepped away with a final brush against Stiles’ cheekbones. The world tilted as Chris shifted and wrapped an arm under his knees to lift him higher. Stiles squirmed and dug his fingers into Chris’ shirt, embarrassed by the treatment, but still so desperate for it to continue, at least until he felt a little more stable and anchored in his head.

It was only a few steps around the island and into the living room before Stiles was set down on the sofa, his bare feet on the soft leather cushions. Chris tried to stand, but Stiles didn’t let go. It caused a brief, awkward tug-of-war that ended with Chris sitting next to him, Stiles tucked tightly against his side. He was mortified, but couldn’t stop himself from pressing into the contact. 

Shutting his eyes for a few minutes, chin tucked to his chest, he focused on breathing and the heat of Chris against his side, until he felt a hand take his wrist and press his palm against a cold glass. 

“Sip that,” Chris said firmly, so close to his ear that Stiles felt goosebumps rise on his arms.

He looked up at Peter, perched on the edge of the coffee table and helping him steady a full glass of orange juice. After a moment of silent staring, he decided that juice actually sounded really fucking good right now. He downed half of it in a few gulps but ended up glaring over the rim of the glass when Chris gripped his wrist, stopping him from chugging the whole thing in one go.

“Slowly. You’ll make yourself sick.”

Stiles growled his annoyance.

Peter chuckled at him. “Careful, Christopher, the kitten has fangs.”

Stretching out a foot, he kicked Peter in the knee. “Screw you,” he tried to rally, forcing annoyance into his shaky voice. “I also have police-grade pepper spray and self-defense training.” He bared his teeth in Peter’s direction. 

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get sexier.” Peter’s eyes were glittering with amusement as he caught Stiles’ ankle and wrapped a hand around it, squeezing gently.

Stiles rolled his eyes but didn’t retrieve his foot, trying to ignore all the blushing he was doing. Chris started rubbing his shoulder and he pressed closer. It felt nice, safe, to have their hands on him, like he was finally settling back into his skin. 

Despite the protests he took a small sip of juice, pleased when Chris squeezed his arm in approval.

The good feelings lasted through the rest of the glass, and a plate of toast that Peter had also retrieved from the kitchen. Stiles realized he wasn't even trying to listen to the low conversation between the two men, too focused on the rise and fall of Chris’ chest and the soft circles Peter was drawing on his ankle bone.

“How'd you know what to do?” The question was directed at Peter, and Chris sounded honestly curious.

“My nephew. He had them for a few years after the fire.”

“I’m—”

“Don’t, Christopher.”

Stiles looked up at the sudden tension in the air. Their eyes were locked, but neither looked angry. Peter squeezed his ankle in reassurance.

When Stiles was done, Peter took the empty glass and plate back to the kitchen. He found himself fidgeting, knowing he should sit up and apologize, but not sure how to start.

Chris heaved a sigh, their closeness making Stiles shift too. “Okay, kid, are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

Stiles tried to move back but found himself anchored by the arm on his shoulder.

“It was—” 

“If you say 'nothing’ this is going to turn into a whole different conversation.”

It took Stiles a second to decide which would be worse.

“Whatever you're thinking, I'm not going to be upset. Hell, I don't even think you'll surprise me.”

The strong hand holding him slid to the back of his neck, squeezing in a way that made the returning tension slide down his spine before it could really get a grip. He let out a breath, shoulders slumping. “I'm sorry.”

“You need to quit apologizing, because you weren't doing anything wrong. If anyone's apologizing around here it should be me, for leaving Peter unsupervised.”

Stiles' lips quirked up involuntarily before falling again. He still couldn't look at Chris, his eyes trained on his knees. When he finally managed to speak, his voice was barely a whisper. “I was going to kiss him.”

“Okay," he drawled out slowly. "I know better than to believe you would kiss a random man you met in the kitchen. So I’m guessing Peter is the senior partner from your office. The one you come home ranting about?”

Stiles jerked around to look at him, wide-eyed.

Chris grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He tends to inspire that kind of rage in people. It was pretty easy to put the pieces together once I saw the two of you. Do you realize you talk about his ass almost as much as you complain about his personality?”

Peter looked pleased as he came back around the island. “I thought you'd have realized sooner. There can't be many Peter Hale's out there that have my ass.” He reclaimed his seat on the coffee table, facing them, hands hanging loose between his knees. Stiles was tempted to reach out again, but couldn’t quite do it, not sure where this conversation was going anymore. 

“He usually calls you, 'that entitled bastard’, or on days that you're exceptionally obnoxious, 'the goddamn manwhore’.”

Stiles felt his face go red, and he whined at Chris in protest, flailing out and smacking his arm.

Peter just smirked. “I would be a hypocrite if that bothered me. I called him, 'the fuckable twink with the Bambi eyes’ for the first six weeks, just to see if anyone had the guts to stop me.”

Stiles’ swiveled to stare at Peter in wide-eyed horror. “Oh my God… You—what— No one said anything?”

Peter's grin was razor-sharp. “Kira wore stilettos in her hair and threatened to stab me in the balls if I kept doing it.”

He managed to hold it together for two beats before he dissolved into laughter. Stiles ended up doubled over with his face pressed to Chris’ knee, and it took several long minutes for him to get control again—he may have been a bit hysterical with relief. While his snickers were trailing off, he was pleased to feel Chris’ fingers carding through his hair and stroking the back of his neck. 

“I'm glad my potential maiming is bringing you so much joy,” Peter said sourly. 

Stiles rolled his head to the side to peek up at him without dislodging Chris’ hand, eyes still sparkling, cheeks warm from laughing. “But Kira is tiny and adorable. I'm enjoying picturing her threaten you.”

“I promise you, she can be very threatening when she puts her mind to it.”

Chris sighed and used his grip on Stiles to gently haul him upright. “Peter, stop distracting him.” With a little maneuvering, he situated Stiles so they were facing each other on the sofa. “Kid, I know you’re uncomfortable, but I need to know what happened.” He squeezed Stiles’ shoulder again. “If it was my fault, you have to tell me what I did.”

Feeling the good humor leave him, Stiles slumped in on himself and ducked his head, plucking at the frayed hem of his pants. “I—I don’t know.” He scrubbed the other hand through his hair and over his face, trying to stop his lower lip from trembling. There was no way he could explain without looking like an idiot, or making Chris hate him. “Please don’t be upset.”

He risked a glance up but stopped short of meeting Chris' eyes before ducking down again. “You aren’t going to make me move, are you?”

“Move?” Chris sounded incredulous. “Why the hell would I want you to move?”

“Because you and Peter—” He stopped, not sure how to finish that sentence, and clenched his hands into fists. “I swear, I just wasn’t thinking. I don’t want to break you up or anything like that. I just— _Fuck_. Why would you want me here?” This time he did look, but at Peter, feeling raw. 

Peter rolled his eyes in response, smirk back in place. “Darling, Christopher and I haven’t been together in years, and no one wants you to move.”

Stiles glanced at Chris, doubtful.

“He’s right. We’re old friends—with benefits, on occasion—and we’re all adults. If there’s a problem, we’re going to talk about it before anyone makes any rash decisions.”

Stiles felt his cheeks burn. “I’m kind of the king of rash decisions and poor impulse control. It’s a side effect of the ADHD.” He looked at Peter again and sucked in a steadying breath. Peter had kissed him, probably just to shock him out of the panic attack, but he needed to know for sure. Now or never. “You kissed me.”

“Yes. Unfortunate that it happened like it did.” Stiles felt his stomach drop again, and his lungs seize up before Peter continued. “I would have much preferred you totally cognizant and enjoying our first kiss.”

Chris sounded a little bit disapproving and a little bit amused as Stiles sputtered next to him. “That was mean, Peter.” He rubbed Stiles’ shoulder soothingly.

“Yes, well, I’m not nice. I’m sure he’s figured that out by now.”

Stiles was about to snark back when Peter reached out and gripped his chin in a deja vu inducing imitation of the night before at the office. He suddenly found himself silent, staring into Peter’s too-blue eyes.

“I think we should have a do-over. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

Stiles, wide-eyed, nodded as well as he could, a jerky movement like a puppet caught up on strings.

“Breathe, Stiles.” Chris’ deep voice was warm and grounding as his thumb drew small circles on a tense shoulder. Stiles obediently sucked in a shaky breath, letting it out equally slowly, grateful for the reminder and the implied encouragement. Chris wasn’t going to stop him, and he trusted Chris.

Peter shifted forward until his knee was on the couch next to Stiles’ thigh and tilted his chin up further. He leaned down but then paused. “Tell me honestly, Stiles, which of us do you want?” His eyes were half-lidded and glittering from between his lashes.

Stiles looked up at him, feeling the heat of Peter’s hand across his jaw, the long line of Chris’ thigh pressed warm and solid against his leg. Chris’ fingers were still tracing shapes on his shoulder, and Stiles, tired of fighting whatever this was trying to be, let his impulsiveness have free rein. Lydia and Scott would shake their heads at him, but he decided that maybe, for once, the universe wasn’t screwing with him.

“Both of you.”

He didn’t get to see Peter’s reaction before lips crashed into his, hot and demanding. 

He moaned into the kiss, and his hands flew to grip Peter's sides as his body arched up, automatically trying to get closer. The sensation of skin under his palms made his jaw go slack, and Peter's tongue dipped into his mouth, taking advantage of the opportunity to taste him.

It felt like Peter had reached into his brain, grabbed hold of all the lingering shakiness from his panic attack, and overwhelmed it with the sheer force of his desire. He vaguely registered his own low whimpers of pleasure as Peter explored, mapping out the inside of his mouth, tongue slick and hot as it tangled with his own. All of the forgotten tension from the night before was rushing back, his skin buzzing, heart speeding. Stiles was spinning, flying, and he surrendered to it enthusiastically.

Peter broke the kiss slowly and sooner than Stiles wanted. He nipped at Stiles' lower lip as he drew back, leaving Stiles flushed and gasping. Large, warm hands cupped his face, lingering, thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones before rubbing down his neck, out across his shoulders, and down his arms to squeeze his wrists in a move that made all of the renewed tension run from his fingertips.

“Much better.” Peter sounded smug. When Stiles opened his eyes, dizzy, to see dilated pupils and slick, kiss-swollen lips, he wanted to dive right back in.

“Yeah,” he rasped, breathless. “So much better.” He flashed Peter a grin.

Peter squeezed his wrists a final time before releasing them and sitting back. “Don’t keep him waiting, sweetheart.” He nodded toward Chris.

Stiles shivered and turned. Chris was worryingly still and quiet next to him, with both feet planted on the floor, his arms draped along the back of the couch, and a look of patient stoicism on his face when he met Stiles’ eyes. He would have seemed unaffected if it wasn’t for the slight flare to his nostrils and the throb of the pulse in his neck.

Stiles bit his lip. They had been living together for a year, and Chris had never acknowledged Stiles’ staring or awkward, flirtatious comments. He didn’t even have a reaction to Stiles bursting in on him in the shower, and then practically having to wipe the drool off his chin beyond saying, "I’ll be out in five, if you can wait". It was entirely possible he wasn’t actually interested in the scrawny, hyperactive kid who had invaded his life.

 _Well_ , Stiles thought fatalistically, _he did say I wouldn’t surprise him_.

Shifting onto his knees, he moved forward and carefully swung a leg over so he was straddling Chris’ thighs. He braced shaky hands on broad shoulders, not touching anywhere else. Chris didn’t react except to turn his head and track Stiles’ movement. He didn't push him away either.

He could feel the even rise and fall of Chris’ chest under his hands, could see the slight dilation of his pupils. Stiles realized after a few long heartbeats that if he wanted this, he was going to have to take it for himself.

Leaning forward slowly, he pressed his lips to Chris’ in a soft, closed-mouth kiss. Chris' lips were warm and dry, stubble scratchy in a way that made him shiver and think of beard burn in sensitive places. 

The kiss had as much in common with Peter’s as _Star Wars_ and _Star Trek_ , or Marvel and DC, or... two other things that were very different. Stiles might have been panicking a little because Chris didn’t move, no more than a slight parting of lips when Stiles pressed more insistently, trying to get a reaction. After a few dry brushes, Stiles was mewling softly, licking at Chris’ mouth and begging with every trick he knew. He could feel mortified tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes. Then finally Chris’ opened his mouth and kissed him back.

Unlike Peter—who was hot, intense, and immediate—kissing Chris was like being slowly cracked open and devoured. He took possession of Stiles’ mouth, tongue pressing in and sliding firmly against the sensitive roof and the edge of his gums. He pinned Stiles’ in place when he tried to tease in return, then suddenly turned the tables and drew Stiles' tongue into his own mouth where he sucked on it firmly—a move that had Stiles groaning, head spinning, his cock twitching in his pants.

Only when Stiles’ began to tremble, feeling like he would collapse under the onslaught, did Chris finally shift and bring his arms down off the couch. He wrapped large hands around to grip the backs of Stiles’ thighs, right below his ass. The hold was so deliciously possessive, Stiles thought he might fall apart from that alone.

When Chris slid his grip to the backs of Stiles' knees and _pulled_ he lost himself for a moment. Stiles broke the kiss with a ragged gasp when he suddenly found himself fully seated in Chris’ lap, the hard line of Chris' cock pressed up against his own and making him ache. 

Stiles stared. Overwhelmed, pupils blown, panting. Chris was looking at him like a man who'd been given something long denied. Something he wanted desperately, but didn't think he could have. 

“Oh.” Stiles felt a little bit stupid, honestly. How had he missed this? He reached up and cupped Chris’ cheek, thumb rubbing his cheekbone in an unintentional mirror of what Peter had done to him. “Chris…”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not. Why didn’t you say something?”

Chris raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Like what, Stiles? How about, ‘I know there’s an inherent power imbalance in our relationship since you live in my apartment—not to mention that I’m old enough to be your father—but I really would like to strip you naked, bend you over my couch, rim until you’re sobbing, and then fuck you until you’re a drooling mess that can’t remember your own name’?”

Stiles couldn’t hold back the desperate whimper at that mental image. A shudder ran through his whole body and his muscles clenched down, making him arch and rock their hips together in helpless reaction. He stared at Chris, trying to get himself back under control and remember how to breathe, despite feeling like Chris had just hit every single one of his kink buttons in one go. “Oh my god…”

Chris looked just as affected by Stiles’ writhing, but was holding himself together through sheer force of will. He let out a throaty laugh that made butterflies erupt in Stiles’ stomach, desire, nerves, and affection all rioting together. His hands slid up Stiles’ thighs to grip his hips, thumbs rubbing gently. “What part of that did you like, baby?”

“Fuck.” Stiles' cheeks burned at the question, and the endearment. “All of it?” He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “But you really aren’t old enough to be my dad.” He paused, then grinned. “Unless you were a super precocious fifteen-year-old.”

“He wasn’t, but I was. Isn’t that right, Christopher?”

Stiles jumped, then melted when Peter’s hands settled on his shoulders and started massaging.

“You were a fucking terror.”

“I was delightful. And you were more than happy to indulge.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Peter doesn’t like to be ignored.”

“He’s right.” Peter’s breath caressed Stiles’ ear. “But sometimes I like to watch. And I definitely like to _be_ watched.”

“Fucking _terror_ ,” Chris muttered. Stiles was amused to see a faint blush staining his cheeks.

“That sounds like a story.” Stiles squirmed and shivered as Peter licked up the shell of his ear.

“There’s no story,” Chris said. He shifted as Stiles’ wiggled, narrowing his eyes at Peter.

Peter, the tease, sucked Stiles’ earlobe between his lips, then gave it a light nip, before letting it go as Stiles panted in reaction.

“Well, there was his eighteenth birthday.” The grin in Peter’s voice was obvious, and Stiles felt his lips twitching up in response. Chris rolled his eyes with a resigned sigh as Peter continued. “We got a little too excited at the movie theater, and my much older sister caught me on my knees, sucking him off in the alley. She nearly murdered him for defiling my poor innocent self, before I convinced her that I was the one doing all the defiling. Christopher was no help at all.” 

Chris coughed, his blush deepening. “You try explaining to someone who just caught you with your cock down the throat of her fifteen-year-old brother that it wasn’t your idea, and you actually tried to stop him several times.”

“She believed you eventually.”

Stiles snickered at the mental image of a panicked Chris trying to convince an older woman that Peter wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Not that you were much help, with the innocent angel act.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but Talia was fucking with you as much as I was. She knew what was going on the minute she saw us.”

Chris’ eyes widened. “She tried to stab me!” 

Stiles couldn’t help laughing at Chris’ affronted tone, loving the ease and familiarity of the banter, at least until Chris’ grip tightened on his hips and he rocked them together firmly. Then he was just gasping and clinging, nothing easy about the heat racing through his body. He didn’t have time to recover before Peter’s fingers were in his hair, pulling his head back and forcing him to arch. His mouth fell open and he moaned, mind blanking.

“Such pretty sounds,” Peter said against his lips, mouth brushing, teasing, again and again. “I want to know what other sounds you make. Will you scream if I suck your cock?”

Stiles didn’t have words to express how on board he was with that. He whimpered brokenly and tried to squirm close enough for a real kiss, despite Peter’s iron grip on his hair keeping him still. He felt more than heard Chris chuckle, chest moving under his hands.

“You like that, baby? You want us to take you apart? Make you scream?” Chris asked, holding Stiles’ hips still as he slowly rocked up against him.

Stiles couldn’t nod his agreement, trapped as he was, so he settled for a steady stream of “please, please, please”, his fingers digging into Chris’ shoulders, cock leaking in his pants. He felt Peter grin against his mouth.

“Oh, we’re going to have fun with you.” He dove in for a kiss that left Stiles dazed and breathless, then let him go and stepped away.

Immediately, Stiles’ hand flailed out and tried to pull him back, but Peter just caught his wrist and squeezed. Stiles’ eyes fluttered shut, and his mouth dropped open as he swayed.

It felt like the band of heat around his wrist was connected directly to a switch in his brain labeled _submit_. He dimly registered his other wrist being caught in a firm grip before both were directed behind his back and held tightly in one large hand. Stiles slumped as all the tension left his body, his focus narrowed to Peter’s grip on his wrists and his aching cock. The buzzing under his skin that had been bothering him off and on all morning settled to an almost pleasant burn. It was a little bit worrying, he thought distantly, to react to them this strongly when he had only felt hints of this want in the past. The majority of his brain though, was purring _yes_ in satisfaction.

“So much fun,” Peter said from behind him again, sounding like the cat who got the cream.

“Peter.” Chris’ tone was a growl, part warning, part anticipation. Stiles felt the vibration of it travel through him as he tipped forward and sprawled across Chris, held captive. He shivered hard, nuzzling his face into the firm chest with a groan.

“Bed now. Argue later.” Stiles bit at a conveniently located collar bone, tasting soft cotton and wishing it was skin. Chris hissed in response.

“You heard the boy.” Peter’s free hand took hold of Stiles’ shoulder, tugged him upright despite his mutter of protest, and held him there when he found himself unable to balance. “Get a move on Argent, or we might decide not to let you participate.” He released Stiles’ wrists with one last squeeze, and a whispered, “We’ll come back to this later,” in his ear, before lifting him from Chris’ lap and setting him on his feet. 

Stiles keened softly around another shudder of arousal, not sure if it was from Peter’s words or the manhandling. There were apparently so many kinks he didn't realize he had, and Chris and Peter were nailing every single one of them. More than that, he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so good with someone’s hands on him. Like he could just let go and trust them to take care of him. 

He was grateful that Peter kept a hold of his hips, because his legs were not participating in the plan to stay vertical. Peter's arms wrapped around him, pulling Stiles back against his broad chest. Stiles shuddered again, arching for more contact. 

“Tell me, Stiles, are you always so sensitive, or is this because you’re touch-starved?

Stiles frowned and shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about that right now, didn’t want to distract them with his weirdness. He just wanted Peter to keep touching him.

Chris’ gaze went from slightly fuzzy with arousal, to sharp and focused on Stiles. “What?” He sat forward, a frown creasing his forehead.

Peter’s arm—which had been wrapped around Stiles' waist—was suddenly under his hoodie and shirt and pressed low against his belly, palm flat, fingers splayed, skin burning hot against his own. Stiles gasped in surprise. His head fell back on Peter’s shoulder as his knees gave out again. Peter didn’t let him fall.

“Touch-starved,” he repeated, hand moving in little circles that had Stiles trembling under the onslaught of sensation so close to vulnerable nerve endings. Peter sounded somewhere between smug and annoyed.

“Peter, _please_ —” Stiles felt tears pricking at his eyes, and he wasn’t sure why, except Peter’s touch felt _so good_. 

“Alright, baby.” Chris was in front of them now, crowded close. He took Stiles’ arms and looped them around his neck. “We’re going to talk about this later, but right now, how about we take the edge off?”

Stiles nodded at him, lost for words, his brain flooded with desire. He used his hold to pull Chris down and into a kiss, licking into his mouth and grounding himself in his taste. Chris pressed forward, and suddenly Stiles was surrounded by heat, hands, and the sensation of being held tight and safe. Peter’s face was tucked into his throat, dragging kisses along his pulse, and Chris’ hands were gripping his hips, thumbs rubbing circles just above his hip bones as he held them flush together. He groaned and mentally fought for something resembling coherency. 

That dissolved as soon as Chris slotted a thigh between his legs, and rolled against his still weeping erection. Stiles cried out, the sound nearly a sob, and bucked into the pressure as his mind threatened to go offline. He broke the kiss to beg them for more, but the words came out in garbled, incoherent syllables. Shaking already, he was so keyed up from the last twenty-four hours that sparks were going off behind his eyelids.

“That’s it,” Peter said against his throat. “Take what you need.”

Chris was rocking him forward with his grip, helping him find a rhythm. 

“Please, please,” he managed. His voice was nearly unrecognizable from desperation, his fingers digging into Chris’ neck and shoulder, hard. After all the build-up, he was going to last seconds.

Chris apparently took pity on him. Large hands squeezed Stiles' ass, spread his cheeks, and pulled him forward again. Peter, flush against his back, thrust his own hips forward at the same time, only two layers of thin cotton between them as his erection slid against Stiles’ hole. It was more than enough to make the white-hot sensation rushing through Stiles' body condense and explode.

Stiles screamed as his orgasm slammed through him, writhing between Chris’ thigh and the pressure of Peter’s cock. His mind went blank, his vision dark at the edges as he jerked and clawed at their arms. They pressed close when Stiles' legs gave out, and held him up as he gasped helplessly, overwhelmed and flayed open, shuddering with aftershocks.

The world was a dim, tingly blur for long minutes while he panted and tried to recover his focus. He was still held tightly between them he realized, Chris’ heartbeat strong against his cheek, hands smoothing up and down his sides. Peter hadn’t moved, the hard line of him nestled between Stiles’ cheeks, light, rocking pressure sending delicious shivers through his body, his hand still rubbing Stiles' belly. 

Stiles groaned and nuzzled Chris’ chest, then shifted, grimacing as wetness dripped down his thighs. God, coming in his pants was the worst. He needed to get out of these clothes, but first, he needed someone to help him find what was left of his brain. He tugged on Chris’s shoulders, trying to bring him closer, and Chris responded by pulling Stiles’ head back for a kiss that made his blood sing. 

Never mind. Who needed a brain anyway? It wasn’t going to take much of anything to get him ready to go again.

“Bed. Now?” he pleaded, breaking the kiss. 

Peter pulled back first, reluctantly, with a final thrust and a nip to his throat that made Stiles gasp and arch. He looked up as Chris met Peter’s eyes over his head. 

With a wicked grin Chris reached out and hauled Stiles forward over his shoulder. Stiles shrieked with surprise before breaking into shaky laughter, the intensity of moments before dissolving.

“Oh my God, Chris!” He squirmed and flailed as he got his hands braced wide on Chris’ back. “Warning would be good, you bastard!” That earned him a sharp smack on the ass, followed by a warm palm squeezing his cheek in warning. 

“Keep still. I don’t want to drop you.”

He groaned, slumping across the broad shoulder in reaction to the tingling heat spreading through him. He heard Peter hum thoughtfully, and Stiles lifted his head to glare at him. “Not a word.”

Peter smirked, but kept his mouth shut, eyes dancing.

 _Crap._ Stiles thought, taking in Peter’s expression and feeling Chris’ hand on his back, holding him safe and secure. He could so easily let himself fall for these assholes, take whatever they were willing to give him if it meant keeping these feelings—and wasn’t that a terrifying thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a detailed panic attack, mentions of past underage Chris/Peter (though they were both basically underage at the time, 15, and just turned 18), power imbalance with Stiles (Chris acknowledges this, but Peter doesn’t). I think that's it. Let me know if you see anything else I should tag!
> 
> They are finally all in the same room! I really didn't expect that to take as long as it did. I thought about cutting the chapter into two parts, but there just wasn't a good spot to do it. It looks like chapter 5 will be equally long, so be ready! I don't feel too bad though, I like long fics. Hopefully you all like long fics too... Also, there are now definitely feelings happening.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you all so much for the continued support, and comments, on the last chapter! I absolutely adore you all! I managed to get this chapter done a little sooner than I thought, so hopefully you'll get two this week. You might also have noticed that the chapter count changed to 7. That's because chapter 5 was starting to look like 16k, and I just couldn't do it. 
> 
> For now, enjoy! (Please don't kill me...)
> 
> No additional tags/warnings for this chapter.

It was only seconds down the hallway to Chris’ bedroom before Stiles was set on his feet. He found himself eyeing the mussed sheets, blankets kicked to the foot of the bed, and clothes scattered haphazardly. There was a bottle of lube set prominently on the bedside table, and a folded washcloth dropped on the floor. 

He was surprised, after everything, to feel the heat of embarrassment prickle down his body, like a bucket of it had been dumped over his head. He had pictured them the night before, granted without knowing who Peter was, but seeing the resulting mess was shocking and brought the sensation of mortified arousal right back. He swallowed hard.

“Sweetheart?” Peter had walked past him into the room while he stood frozen, but turned back. Peter's eyes narrowed slightly and he cocked his head, nostrils flaring as he drew in a deep breath. 

Scenting.

Stiles’ attention was riveted by the movement, and his heart skipped several painful beats. Awareness stabbed through him. He stumbled back a step and bumped into Chris as all of the arousal turned impossibly cold in his gut. 

He knew that gesture, it had been beaten into him until he recognized it in his bones.

Predator.

Puzzle pieces he didn’t know he was collecting suddenly twisted and slotted into place.

Peter’s strength. The easy way he lifted Stiles, and moved him. 

The too hot hands sliding across his cheekbones, on his throat, spreading his scent. 

Peter calling him ‘sweetheart’ in the kitchen, before he even turned around, when he only ever called Chris, "Christopher", or "Argent". 

The way he seemed to read Stiles’ attraction, and play him so easily. 

The confident smirk, almost screaming that he knew something Stiles didn’t.

He had been manipulated, Stiles realized. Peter must have known he lived with Chris since the moment they met. Would have been able to smell the other man on him. Especially if Peter and Chris had the long history together that they claimed. All of Peter’s flirting and advances had been planned, knowing who Stiles was, and who he spent his time with. 

Which meant last night when he came home with Chris, Peter knew Stiles was there. He would have been able to smell what he was doing, hear that he was listening, and affected—and didn't that thought make him want to curl up and die.

His brain made one of the intuitive leaps that he had learned to trust during the traumatic hell that was high school. Last night, when he had gasped in reaction to the sounds of them fucking, Chris had noticed. He asked Peter if he heard, and Peter called him paranoid.

Chris _knew_ Peter could hear if Stiles was awake. He knew what Peter _was_. Had known all along, probably since they were kids. Before he let Peter suck his cock in an alley behind a movie theater. Peter’s sister wanted to stab Chris, but not with a knife. Why would she need to carry one if she had claws? Claws that Chris, despite the secrecy surrounding Peter’s kind, knew about.

Chris who kept strange hours because of his job in security, and consulted with people all over the globe. Who gave Stiles off-brand Mace, because he didn’t like him walking home late, even in their neighborhood. Who was more protective of his daughter than could be called normal for someone who lived across the country from her. Chris, whose last name translated as ‘silver’.

Stiles flinched back another step and maneuvered himself so he could see them both. His heart pounded, fast with adrenaline, hard but steady in his chest. He looked from one man to the other, Peter with his calculating, narrow-eyed stare, Chris frowning and concerned. There was a moment when he thought he might tip over into another panic attack, but he grabbed onto his rationality with both hands and dug in, shoving the anxiety down and letting anger burn in its place. He could panic later. He was not going to be manipulated again. He turned his most threatening glare on Chris. It was an expression that had made more than one supernatural creature pause.

“No wonder you hate Scott.”

“What are you—" Chris was confused, wary, and it only pissed Stiles off more. He cut him off.

“Hypocrite.”

That resulted in a deeper frown and a hand lifted in Stiles’ direction, palm up. “Stiles, please—” Stiles skittered back.

“Don’t talk. You don’t get to talk.” He was shaking, he realized. “ _Hunter_.” His voice cracked, and his hands clenched into fists so tight that his nails were biting into his palms. He focused on the pain as Chris’ eyes widened, and a calm mask slipped over his features as he glanced at Peter. Stiles redirected his glare to the uncharacteristically silent man, who wasn’t really a man at all.

“Werewolf.”

Peter’s eyes flashed, blood-red hiding the blue of his irises.

“Oh, sorry,” Stiles snarked darkly, even as his heart’s frantic rhythm stumbled. “Alpha werewolf.”

A growl rumbled in Peter’s chest and he lifted his lip, showing Stiles a glimpse of fangs. “You continuously surprise me, Stiles.”

Stiles hoped the pang he felt at the lack of endearment didn’t show in his scent, or on his face. “Yeah, well, that’s always been my weapon of choice. Surprise and sarcasm.”

“Hey...” Chris had moved closer in his distraction and his fingers brushed against Stiles’ cheek. Stiles flinched back again, shoulder bumping the door-frame. Chris’ mask slipped, revealing a complicated mixture of worry and resignation. “Will you let us explain?”

“No.” The response was instinctive, because, if he was being honest, he really _did_ want to let them explain. To talk him down and make all of this okay. But, he also knew his anger was justified. Chris had been lying to him for nearly a year, and Peter had manipulated him, playing with his emotions for the last six months in a bid to—what? Get back in Chris’ bed? That didn’t make sense. Stiles wasn’t sure what Peter’s end goal was, and he needed space to think. “No. Don’t touch me.” 

He backed the rest of the way from the bedroom and slammed the door shut in the face of Chris’ protest, and Peter’s stony silence. 

“Manipulative, lying, assholes,” he hissed at the door, perfectly aware they could hear him with the way sound traveled in this fucking place. “I should have known better than to trust either of you.”

He needed to get out. The walls were too close, and if they tried to talk to him he was going to start screaming and maybe not stop. He fled down the hallway to his room and stripped out of his sticky pants, pulling on the first clean pair he could find, and shoved his feet into sneakers, forgoing socks. Grabbing his phone off the charger, he strode back down the hallway to the living room. 

As he snagged his keys from the counter a flash of red, out of place in the kitchen, caught his eye. He glanced over, then went still. 

The kitchen floor was smeared with bloody footprints, leading away from the smashed mug and pool of coffee that no one had bothered to clean up. His own feet were fine, and he would have noticed Chris limping when he carried him back to the bedroom. That meant Peter had been hurt, trying to keep Stiles out of the shattered ceramics when he was having his panic attack. The werewolf was probably already healed, but Stiles still felt a stab of guilt. 

When everything went to shit junior year, Scott started throwing himself into danger, claiming that it was fine, he would heal. Stiles had hated it. He constantly had to remind him that, just because werewolves healed quickly, didn’t mean their pain wasn't real. He didn’t want anyone to get hurt because of him. Never again.

“Stiles…”

He jerked around at Peter’s voice, it’s normal sarcastic edge dulled with what he was tempted to label uncertainty. Not that Peter would admit to being anything less than certain. 

The wolf was hovering at the end of the hallway, a pinched expression on his face. The hunter was slightly behind him, keeping a tight grip on his bicep, and stopping him from coming any closer.

Stiles bit his lip and sighed roughly, anger still hot and bubbling in his gut. “Just… stay here. Okay?” He stepped back towards the door, watching them, and knowing Peter could stop him before he took another step if he tried. He took in the red tinge to his irises and the slightly too sharp nails, signs that his wolf was close to the surface. “Don’t follow me.”

Peter's nostrils flared, obviously reading his scent this time, before letting the breath out slowly, his features fading back to human. His shoulders stayed tense, but he nodded, lips pressed together in displeasure. 

Chris’ hand clenched on Peter’s arm, and suddenly Stiles wasn’t sure if he was holding Peter back, or Peter was blocking the doorway. He took another step, hand fumbling for the doorknob, unable to look away.

“Baby, take your coat.” Though Chris’ voice was soft too, he couldn’t disguise the tension in it. His entire body was coiled like a spring, and he looked like he wanted nothing more than stride across the room and make Stiles stay, but he didn’t move.

Stiles held back his flinch at the endearment, fumbled on the hook for his coat, and hugged it close as he got the door opened. He stared across at them for a long moment, anger still burning, then lifted his chin defiantly, rolled his shoulders back, and glared. “It’s not like it's that fucking hard to tell the truth.” 

At the very least, he wasn’t going to let them think he was weak.

He stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him, a little harder than necessary. It took two slow, shaky breaths before he could let go of the handle. His legs took him down the stairs and out to the street on autopilot, his brain buzzing and thoughts incoherent.

Ten blocks of furious stomping later, the cold drizzle registered and he remembered the coat clutched in his arms. He huffed a painful laugh when he pulled it on and realized it wasn’t even his, and since he didn’t recognize it, it must be Peter’s. He wrapped the soft wool tight around himself, unrepentant. Werewolves were goddamn walking space heaters anyway. Stiles needed it more.

His feet were taking him north through Hell’s Kitchen and his stomach decided to remind him how little he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours. He was still fuming, and anxiety meant he didn’t want food, but he knew processing everything that had happened would be more difficult if he didn’t get some calories and caffeine first.

It was only a dozen more blocks to Columbus Circle, which he covered by focusing on the slap of his shoes against the wet pavement, the cold against his cheeks, and nothing else. Between the earlish hour, and the terrible weather, the streets were basically empty of pedestrians. Traffic was still a shit show, but when was it not? 

With his head ducked against the rain, he headed down the stairs on 8th Ave, and into the old subway station that had been converted as a food hall and market. It was one of his favorite places, back when he made deliveries all over midtown. He hadn’t been in months, and the aroma of fresh doughnuts and coffee made his mouth water. 

His timing was good enough that the breakfast crowd had thinned down to nothing, and the lunch-time tourists were still in bed. Placing his order, he was lucky to discover that Peter kept a money clip in his coat pocket. He felt no guilt peeling off a twenty off the stack of bills to pay for breakfast. Peter was going to be buying lunch too, since Stiles’ wallet was in his own coat, and the werewolf was in no position to complain.

Werewolf. Peter was a werewolf. The knowledge sat heavy in his chest, a tight ache that he fought to ignore. How had he missed it? How did he let them fool him for so long?

Stiles settled down at a table tucked into a corner. Doughnuts probably weren’t substantial enough to be called lunch, but they would hold him over until some of the other kiosks opened. He wasn’t going anywhere for a while, anyway.

He checked the time on his phone. 10:37. Somehow it felt like his whole life had been upended in the last two hours and thirty minutes. He had gone from painfully alone, to happily flirting, to panicked, to held and cared for, to more turned on than he’d been in his entire life, to angrier than he’d been in years, and right back to alone and wondering where everything had gone wrong. His life was a b-horror movie that he thought he escaped when he left for college, but somehow he was right back in the middle of act two. He wanted a different genre, maybe one that came with a fairy godmother to solve all his problems for him.

He also wanted to call Scott, or Lydia, and beg for advice, but they were on the west coast, probably still asleep in their soft, warm beds at 7:30 on a Saturday morning. Lydia didn't appreciate calls before nine on the weekends, and Scott slept like the dead and would never even hear the phone ring. So Stiles was going to have to wait. At least he had good coffee and fried, sugary dough to hold him over. He just wished he had his work bag with his backup Adderall and anxiety meds. It was going to be a painful two hours.

He was halfway through his coffee and licking sugar off his fingers when his phone lit up, and his breath caught. The display flipped to a photo of Chris he had snuck one night. Chris was on the couch, lit by the glow of the TV, a tired smile on his face as he listened to one of the late-night talk shows. Stiles couldn’t remember which one—though it was probably Colbert—because he had been messing around on his phone, and watching Chris more than the TV. He had looked so soft and sleepy, and Stiles mostly took the picture to stop himself from climbing into his arms.

He stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering between the accept and decline buttons. Before he could make a decision it went dark again. He was pretty sure it only rang twice, and Stiles frowned, wondering what just happened. Before he could work himself into even more of an anxious mess trying to figure it out, the phone buzzed, this time with a text.

_That was Peter. Sorry._

Stiles read the message, eyebrows drawing down, not sure what to think. Then the phone buzzed again.

_If you pick up he’ll use the background noise try to track where you are._

Oh. So, just Peter being an asshole werewolf then. Figures. He was working up a new mental rant when a third message came through.

_I’m sorry, Stiles. Take all the time you need. I can get you a hotel room if it will help. Just come home when you’re ready._

Stiles read the message over while his eyes teared up because that was really fucking considerate, and he wasn’t sure he deserved it. He put his phone back, screen face down on the table, and took another sip of coffee, trying to blink the moisture away.

  


* * *

  


An hour and a half later Stiles was still hunched over the small table, turning the phone around and around in his hands. He had held off on calling his friends, had even eaten lunch—on Peter’s dime again—because he knew Lydia would ask. Arepa’s were his new favorite. He was going to roast Scott for not telling him about them sooner. Scott had Venezuelan grandparents! How had he been withholding this life changing information? Now Stiles was just waiting, anxiously, for the clock to read noon. 

He had gone through several emotional highs and lows while he was there. Halfway to forgiving Chris, or Peter, a dozen times, before his brain circled back around and got him all tangled up and aching again. One of the only things he had settled on, was that he wasn’t even that angry. Mostly he was hurt, and felt manipulated. Other than that, he wasn’t sure which emotions were real, and which were the result of the mess he currently was. If there were any supernatural sniffers in Columbus Circle, they would be able to smell his anxiety before they even hit the subway stairs.

Finally, finally, the clock ticked over and he sent the text message that had been typed out for the last twenty minutes. 

_Can I call?_

He only had to wait another thirty seconds for a response.

_Yes._

Clutching the phone, he hit the speed-dial icon. Before the first ring ended, Lydia answered, her take no prisoners tone already firmly in place despite the early hour on the west coast.

“Who do I need to make disappear?”

Stiles had to pause when he realized he wasn’t sure if the first thing out of his mouth was going to be a laugh, or a sob.

“Stiles? I’m serious, what’s wrong?” Lydia’s tone had shifted to something more gentle, coaxing. She knew how to play her audience, and Stiles was more than willing to let her.

“Everything's so fucked up, Lyds.” His voice shook. He realized he was chewing on his thumbnail, and pressed his hand to his thigh to stop.

“Alright,” Stiles could hear her shifting in the background and a sound that could only be the coffee grinder. “I’m going to need you to start from the beginning. But first, have you slept, and eaten?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she replied, decisive. “And you're somewhere safe? I can hear talking.”

“Yes, Lydia,” Stiles said, letting a little fondness into his tone as he relaxed in response to the familiar line of questioning. “I’m in Columbus Circle. I had breakfast and lunch. I even had coffee.”

“Okay.” Stiles smiled a little at the praise in her voice, even over the phone. “How about your meds?” His smile slipped. “Stiles.” She was frowning now, he could tell.

“…I forgot, and by the time I remembered I couldn't go back.” He was chewing on his nail again and couldn't bring himself to stop.

She sighed at him. “Okay, Mischief. You have to do everything the hard way, don't you? Just keep breathing, alright?”

“Yeah. Okay.” He sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, feeling the knot in his chest warm a little at the nickname that he only allowed from her, and only in private.

“Take me through it from the beginning, then.”

It took three long slow breaths before he could get any words out, and when he did they all ran together. “IkissedChris.”

There was a brief silence and Stiles had the sneaking suspicion that she was trying not to laugh at him. “It's about damn time. You need to give me more details than that though. Did he react badly? Am I going to have to apologize to Allison for maiming her father?”

“No! It was… he was…” Stiles felt himself turning red. “Peter kissed me.”

Dead silence. Stiles squirmed, then abruptly started gathering his trash from the small table. He needed to be moving. 

“Peter's your boss, yes? The one you call 'that sexy asshole’?”

He froze for a second. “I really never use his name?”

“Let's stay on topic. Peter kissed you, and you enjoyed it.”

Stiles groaned, which was apparently enough of a response for Lydia.

“But you'd already started something with Chris?” Now she sounded like she disapproved, and Stiles was quick to correct her.

“No! Peter kissed me first.”

“Stiles.” He could picture the pinch of her lips and the disappointed, raised eyebrow. “I told you to start at the beginning.”

“Sorry.” He let out a massive sigh as he tried to order his thoughts chronologically, instead of in the order of whatever-popped-out-of-his-mouth-first. He would pay good money for his Adderall right about now.

“Try again.”

Okay, he could do this. Get his rioting brain under control, tell Lydia what happened, and get the advice he so desperately needed. “Chris and Peter are fucking.”

He could almost hear Lydia's jaw drop. Her tone wasn't exactly disbelieving, but it was close. “That's not the beginning I was expecting.”

“Yeah, well neither was I.” Stiles didn't bother to keep the hurt out of his voice. “Apparently they've known each other forever. Chris brought him home last night.” And oh, God, he was blushing just at the thought of it. Now there were visuals to go with the sounds, Peter’s lips and hands, the arch of his neck. He dragged his brain out of that gutter with teeth and claws.

“You've mentioned how thin the walls are.”

“Yeah. I didn’t sleep much.” Stiles resolutely redirected. “This morning, Peter kissed me. Then told me to kiss Chris. So I did.” It was easier if he just dictated, instead of letting the words have meaning inside his head.

“And everyone was consenting in this?” That was Lydia’s "reserving judgment" tone. Hopefully it was a positive sign.

He shivered helplessly, the memory of Peter’s hand tipping his head back, of Chris’ grip on his thighs, making him feel hot. “Oh, yeah. Very.”

“I want to say congratulations, but if that was it you'd be home getting your brains screwed out, instead of calling me.”

Stiles choked a little because she wasn’t wrong, and if he had played his cards better maybe he would be. But, just like he had been when this started, she was missing a vital piece of the puzzle. “It turns out Peter's a werewolf. And Chris—” He had to pause, forcing himself to breathe around the ache in his chest. “Chris is a hunter.”

There was a long silence, as Lydia sorted through that bombshell. “Alright. That is complicated.” She blew out a breath, but didn’t sound quite as shocked as he expected.

Stiles felt the anger from earlier come roaring back. “What it is, is fucked up. This whole time, Peter could smell Chris on me. He knew we lived together. He played me, and I fell for it!” His chest was tightening, forcing his heart up into his throat. “And Chris has _always_ known about the supernatural. The goddamn hypocrite acts like he hates Scott, and he’s been screwing my werewolf boss for who knows how long. He’s a lying liar who lies Lyddie.” He cut himself off when his voice broke, fighting back angry tears.

“Oh, Mischief…You really get yourself in some messes.” She said with fond exasperation. 

“Maybe I'm cursed?” His voice was wet. He ran a hand through his hair roughly, and gripped the back of his neck, thumb pressing hard right below the knob of his spine.

“You're not cursed, I'd be able to tell.” she said it dismissively. She would, too. Lydia's Banshee premonition was more than a little bit scary.

When she started hearing voices junior year and landed in Eichen House, Stiles had been the only one to believe they were real, including Lydia herself. It had taken him weeks to find the journal describing a young woman's Banshee powers awakening in the late 1600s, and then another month to convince his dad that he wasn't crazy too, and they needed to get her out before the place really did drive her mad. So in one fell swoop, his dad found out about the supernatural, Lydia became part of Scott's pack, and Stiles gained one of the best and most terrifying friends of his life. 

His dad had remarked more than once how grateful he was that Lydia was on their side.

“You still haven't explained why you're upset with Peter.”

“He manipulated me!” Stiles bit his lip hard to hold back the scathing rant he wanted to let fly.

“And? Stiles, you manipulate people all the time. Last month you got Parrish to promise that the only sweets allowed at the station for Valentine's Day would be kale cupcakes. The deputies are united in your quest to save your dad from red meat and replace all his hotdogs with salads.”

Stiles smirked a little at that. 

“Or, how about when Jackson dumped me two weeks before prom? You tracked down your date’s summer fling, put them back in touch, got yourself dumped too, and then let me ask you to the dance. All so I wouldn’t feel pressured, or have to go alone.”

He frowned. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.” But she wasn't wrong. He was proud of his ability to get other people to do what he wanted. Peter probably was too. And Peter was good, he had to be, it was kind of his job. 

In the months they'd been working together Stiles had never suspected he wasn't 100% human. 

Stiles had never suspected. And his instincts were good. He could pick out a werewolf from a crowded club with almost perfect accuracy. That meant Peter's control was impeccable. He was probably a born wolf. So how could he slip up in a way that was so blatant?

And there was the answer. Right in front of Stiles’ oblivious face. He didn't. The tilt of his head and the obvious scenting was Peter telling him. No born wolf with his control would make a mistake like that. He wanted Stiles to know.

“He sounds like a perfect match for you. He'll make you work for it.”

Stiles blinked a little. “Out loud?” 

“It was,” Lydia confirmed.

“Dammit... I need to start carrying backup meds.”

Lydia had the gall to laugh at him. 

“Okay.” A deep sigh burst through his lips. “Let's say I'm not actually that upset with Peter. He’s an asshole, but he was more collateral damage than anything. What about Chris? I thought— I _know_ him.” He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “I trusted him. A hunter. Scotty’s practically dating Ally, or he will be in a few months. What if Chris— I don't believe he—” Stiles' throat tightened and his eyes started to burn.

“Don’t be stupid. You know he'd never go after Scott. First of all, you know he’s a good man. And second, Allison would never forgive him. Are you more upset that he's a hunter, or is it the fact that you care about him, and you’re hurt that he wasn’t honest with you.”

Stiles took a few shaky breaths, trying to calm down. “The second one.” His voice was barely a whisper as he fought down his emotions.

Lydia hummed a comforting sound into the phone. “Then you aren’t going to solve this by talking to me. You need to talk to Chris.”

Stiles took a steadying breath. Then another. He squared his shoulders. “Yeah. I know.” His voice was stronger, more sure. Chris had even said, they were adults. If there was a problem, they would talk about it. He could trust that at least.

“Good boy,” Lydia said, pleased.

Stiles startled, then groaned. “Not you too.”

“Me too?” Now she was curious.

Stiles felt the blush sweep across his cheeks. Crap. He did not want to explain any new-found kinks at the moment. “Nothing, nothing. I should go, Lyds. Let you get back to your morning. Sorry for bothering you.”

“You’re not a bother, Stiles. Though next time, I’m expecting some very juicy details!” She was definitely laughing at him now.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, unable to stop the grin. “You know you always get them. Love you, Lyddie.”

“Love you too, Mischief.”

Stiles ended the call and looked around, startled to see how far he had walked. He hadn’t even noticed crossing half of Central Park, but when he thought back, he realized he had been pacing in circles around the Alice in Wonderland statue for the last ten minutes. It was one of his favorite spots in the park, so he wasn’t surprised that was where his feet led him. Stopping to look up at the little girl’s bronze face, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Can’t ever finish, if you don’t begin, right?”

It was time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the werewolf reveal!! :) I really wanted one good plot twist in this crazy thing. I hope I surprised some of you? I tried so hard to be subtle, so let's just pretend you were surprised!
> 
> I'm super excited for the next chapter, it's my favorite! <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some additional warnings at the end of this chapter. Please read them if you are concerned!**
> 
> Long chapter again! And, I managed to get two chapters out this week! I'm so proud of me. I'm still trying to pretend that this is PWP, so that means the smut gets as much screen-time as the feels, right? Right! Enjoy!

He didn't go home.

He tried, but somehow it just didn't happen. By the time he got back to midtown, his feet were dragging in every direction except the apartment. He found himself pacing at the end of the street. The drizzle had turned to a fine mist and everything was damp. His shoes were soggy, his feet hurt, and while Peter's coat had been warm that morning, now it was as wet as the rest of him. Generally, he was miserable. 

He wasn't sure at this point if he was avoiding a confrontation, or punishing himself for leaving in the first place. 

It was hard to tell what time it was with the rain, but the light seemed dimmer when his phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, biting his lip, hoping and dreading another text from Chris, or Peter. 

It was Lydia again.

_Go home, Stiles. Your boyfriends are worried._

And didn’t that make him feel guilty and giddy all at the same time? They weren’t his boyfriends, that was a crazy leap from where they were, but it was a pretty thought. 

He managed to ride the feeling all the way down the street to the apartment, and up the stairs to the front door. He stalled with his key in the lock, heart thumping uncomfortably in his chest. _Get it over with_ , he told himself sternly. Maybe they had gone out. Maybe he could get to his room without having to talk to anyone and could put this whole confrontation off until the morning. He eased the door open, slipped through and shut it behind him with all the stealth of a high school career spent surrounded by werewolves.

Stealth didn’t do much when the werewolf was curled up on your couch, watching you. The overhead lights were off, just the overcast, late-afternoon light from the windows and the glow of Chris’ laptop spilling over them. Chris was sprawled against the arm of the sofa, long legs propped on the coffee table, computer on his thighs. Peter was lounging against him, back to Chris’ chest, a book dangling from one hand. They looked so comfortable and relaxed in each other's space that Stiles briefly wondered what would happen if he stripped off his wet clothes, climbed into Chris’ lap, wrapped himself around Peter, and went to sleep.

Peter closed his book and levered himself up slowly, eyes locked on Stiles as if Stiles was the wild thing and might spook away. Chris didn’t move except to rest a hand on Peter’s back. Stiles watched them both warily, waiting for a reaction. Water slid from the ends of his hair and dripped onto his cheeks. He felt one cold drop trickle down his neck and pool in the hollow of his throat. He swallowed hard.

“You’re still here.”

Peter frowned, and Stiles saw a muscle in his jaw twitch like he was grinding his teeth together. “Yes, well. I was just leaving.”

“No!” Stiles flinched at his own outburst, then tried to soften it. “That’s not what I meant.” He shifted in place, squirming in discomfort as he ran out of words.

“Stiles,” Chris said softly. “You’re going to have to tell us what you want to happen here. We don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Speak for yourself, Argent. I haven't agreed to those terms.” Peter tossed his book on the coffee table, annoyed frown still creasing his forehead.

That made Stiles bark out a laugh. “Fuck. There is absolutely no way I could not be uncomfortable right now.” He paused, then decided that yes, that meant what he wanted it to mean. He lifted an arm to chew at his thumbnail, feeling rainwater run towards his elbow as he eyed them and worked towards how to start. He dragged in a deep breath, held if for a second, then released it slowly with a sigh, forcing his shoulders to relax.

“I’m sorry about storming out.” His focus shifted to the floor, then to Peter whose eyes were almost glowing blue in the dim light. “I’m usually better with the whole supernatural reveal...thing.” He waved his free hand, trying to encompass just how all-encompassing that statement was for him. “But seriously, Peter, couldn’t you just use your words? Making me figure it out was kind of a dick move.”

Peter narrowed his eyes, an expression that might have been concerning, but Stiles had begun to realize it meant he was startled, or impressed. “Werewolves are secretive, which should come as no surprise. I wasn’t positive you were aware of the supernatural until you admitted it.” His lips curved up in a slow smirk. “Not many people can fool me like that. You should be proud.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the warmth gathering in his belly at the praise. “Well, I’ve had practice. Scott and I were on our own after he got bit, and I had to keep him safe. Besides,” he smirked. “I’m a cop’s kid. We’re awesome actors. It’s hard as hell to hide from law enforcement parents.”

Peter’s answering grin was wicked. “I’m going to remember that the next time you ask for a day off.”

"Rude." Stiles made a face at him, then turned towards Chris, the good humor slipping away as realized he still didn’t know what to say. Peter was easy. Ignoring the snark and sarcasm, and remembering that the wolf would place more importance on reading his scent and hearing his heartbeat helped. They didn’t have as much history between them either. Everything about Chris was more complicated. He opened his mouth, hoping something useful would come out. 

“I’m wet and cold, and I’m too tired to fight.” Well, at least none of it was a lie. His shoulders slumped, defeated, water dripping from the ends of his sleeves.

Chris set his laptop aside, and gathered himself up off the couch, squeezing Peter's shoulder as he did to keep him in place. “I don't want to fight with you.” He crossed the room and reached for Stiles’ coat, unfastening it as he continued. Stiles remained still, watching the hunter's deft, callused fingers ease the buttons free. “I thought keeping quiet would protect you.”

Stiles wanted to sway forward and rest his head on Chris’ chest, but he restrained himself. “I don't need protecting. I've known about werewolves and hunters since I was sixteen.”

Chris peeled the wet coat from Stiles’ shoulders and hung it on a chair, unzipped his equally soggy hoodie and did the same, then checked the sleeve of his shirt for moisture, finding it only damp. He was standing so close that Stiles could feel heat radiating against his chilled skin. “I wasn't protecting you from the supernatural. I was protecting you from me.”

That made Stiles look up, startled, to meet Chris’ guilty eyes. The expression turned his surprise to annoyance. “Bullshit.”

Chris went still, brow furrowed. He opened his mouth, but Stiles cut off his protest. No way was he letting Chris get away with any ‘pushing him away for his own good’ nonsense.

“How long have you known that Scott’s a werewolf?”

Chris’ lips tightened briefly, as if he didn’t want to admit the truth Stiles could see on his face. “I did a few background checks before you moved in.”

“Over a year. Figures.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m guessing hunter background checks are a little more thorough than what the police can manage. Which means you know about the shit we handled living on the freaking Beacon Hills Hellmouth. I’ve dealt with as many evil supernatural creatures as I have good ones.” He started ticking off on his fingers. “My dad is a cop. My best friend is a werewolf. His mom is an ER nurse. His boss is a druid. My other best friend is a banshee. One of my dad’s deputies is a hellhound.” He had stopped counting and was now jabbing Chris in the chest with each item on his bullet-pointed list. “We’ve taken down feral werewolves, zombies, wendigos, kanima, one totally human serial killer, and even a darach.” He looked up, narrowed eyes daring Chris to argue. “So explain to me what makes you someone I need protecting from?” 

The hunter’s chest rose and fell hard against Stiles’ poking finger as he sighed, but he kept their eyes locked, unwilling to back down. “Ten years ago my father arranged for peace talks with a powerful alpha and his pack. It was a trap. He ambushed the wolf, killed his pack, blinded him, and drove him mad.” 

Stiles’ breath caught, the solid weight of recognition forming in his gut. He knew this story even without the names attached to it. “Your father?”

“Deucalion gathered the Alpha pack, terrorized your town, and turned your best friend because he wanted revenge against my father, Gerard. Having access to the Nemeton was the best way to get it.” Chris’ words were harsh, old anguish in his eyes.

Stiles went ice cold at Deucalion’s name. The Alpha Pack. The Nemeton. He drew his arms back around himself automatically, one palm pressed hard against the fox tattoo on his ribs. The scars on his side, hidden by ink, were an old ache, even on days that the memories felt fresh. The horror show that Deucalion and his pack created nearly destroyed everything, and Stiles had fought tooth and nail to survive it.

“Terrible things happened to you and your friends, and it was because of my family.” Chris rubbed a hand down his face, looking tired suddenly. “When Lydia called I wanted to help. I thought I could give you a safe place to live at least. Make sure there was someone in the city you could trust.” He let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I didn’t know how to tell you I was a hunter without ruining that.”

“You think I would hold what he did against you?” Stiles forced his arms away from his body and reached up to cup Chris' face, stubble scratchy under his palms. His voice was sure and unwavering. “You aren’t responsible for your father. I would never hold his actions against you.”

“Damn it, kid.” Chris’ voice cracked with an emotion somewhere between exasperation and relief, and he wrapped his arms around Stiles, hauling him in for a tight hug. “I know there's self-preservation in you somewhere.”

Stiles melted into the hug and nuzzled against Chris' throat, relaxing. “Sure there is, when I need it.” He shifted closer with a soft, pleased sigh, letting Chris surround him as the tension eased away. “Just tell me you're not planning to hunt me, or my friends.”

Chris’ hands clenched hard against his back and Stiles went boneless—which was probably not the most rational response, but it felt so good that he didn't care. “I don't hunt anymore. I'm retired, and when I did I followed the code.”

Peter scoffed from behind them, then there were hands tugging Stiles backward and a towel was dropped over his head. Stiles jumped and squeaked in surprise. He hadn’t heard Peter move.

“You're dripping, and I refuse to give you a day off if you get sick, ridiculous human.” Peter sounded completely affronted. It broke the tension, and Stiles couldn't help but laugh into the terrycloth while Peter scrubbed at his hair. “He's as retired as a world-renowned Argent hunter can get. He got out of the family business after he helped me put his father, and sister, away for murdering most of my pack.”

Stiles' jaw dropped and he spun to look at Peter. He was the picture of nonchalance as he wiped at the dampness on Stiles’ face—then his eye twitched and gave him away. 

"Peter—" Stiles' voice came out raw. He couldn't imagine the devastation of losing his family like that, and he didn’t feel the pack bonds the same way a wolf did. To have them torn away by hunters? To survive that loss— “They’re in jail?” He glanced back at Chris. “Both of them?” The outrage that he couldn’t quite contain bled into his tone and his heart thumped hard in his chest. He personally couldn't have accepted jail as a consequence for the things these people had done, though his vindictive streak was a little overdeveloped according to Scott.

Peter sneered, but it was Chris who answered. “He’s dead. Cancer, actually. She's in a psychiatric facility for supernatural creatures. The tribunal found her unfit to stand trial. It was...disappointing.”

Peter's gaze was focused on the towel, voice edging on guttural. “I spent the last six years in France petitioning the tribunal for her execution, unsuccessfully.”

Stiles wanted to press for more details, for whys and hows, but bit his tongue to hold the questions back. This wasn’t the time. Peter's eyes were tinged red, fangs sharp against the inside of his lips, and Stiles was more than familiar with agitated werewolf behavior. Calming Peter down, reassuring him, was currently more important than satisfying his curiosity. There would be a better time for questions. 

Stiles wet his lips in a moment of nerves, then deliberately tilted his head back, bearing the vulnerable arch of his throat for the towel in Peter's hands. The wolf’s shoulders relaxed in increments, and he let out an involuntary rumble of pleasure. Stiles smiled a little, pleased that he had done the right thing.

Peter dropped the towel to the side and leaned in, lips and nose sliding against his throat, blatantly scent marking. He sucked at the soft skin below Stiles’ ear, making him hum happily and give Peter even more room.

“Good boy,” Peter murmured.

Stiles shivered and arched closer, wrapping his arms around Peter’s shoulders. He wanted to feel more of that supernatural heat against him, wanted praise and firm touches on his cold skin. Peter sucked hard at his pulse in response, and Stiles melted with a whimper, knees turning to water under him.

“Alright, enough, Peter.” Chris stepped forward and caught Stiles at the hips before he ended up a puddle on the floor. Stiles let himself be pulled back against Chris' solid chest and held there. The manhandling was already such a kink.

Peter was smirking at the spot he had been focused on, no doubt gloating over the hickey he left behind. Groaning, Stiles let his head fall back against Chris, because there was no way his work shirt was going to hide that. 

Chris squeezed his hips, trying to make him stand on his own. “Are you okay, Stiles? Are we okay?”

Stiles took a moment to gather his thoughts. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, chewing on it. We're they? Was he willing to accept Chris’ reasons for what he did? As much as he didn't agree with them? He watched Peter, looking at the two of them with hunger and a hint of worry in his eyes—felt the way Chris was tense behind him, hands firm but gentle on his hips, breath too slow and even to be natural. He let himself sink back further, forcing Chris to take more of his weight. “Don't lie to me again. Don't keep things from me for my own good.” He turned his head to kiss under the stubbled jaw and felt Chris' breath stutter.

“I'm sorry.”

Stiles let his lips curve up in a pleased smile. “I know. I forgive you.”

“Are we done talking about our feelings yet? Because I have some very good ideas on alternative apologies that you both might be interested in.” Peter was leering now, but his body language was relieved.

Stiles snorted and pressed his face into Chris’ neck. “Oh my God, is he always like this?” Chris laughed softly, but Peter didn't let him respond.

“I know you want to taste him, Christopher.” He reached out, one finger touching the new bruise on Stiles’ throat. It trailed to the dip between his collarbones, slid slowly over his t-shirt, down the center of his chest, and edged around his belly button, then hooked into the waistband of his jeans. “He’s delicious.”

Stiles sucked in sharply at the burning of Peter's fingers against the sensitive skin of his belly. He startled when Chris’ breath hit his neck on the opposite side from Peter's mark. Lips and teeth dragged up the taught cord of his throat, and bit down below his ear, earning a gasp and a full-body shudder as his brain went suddenly offline at the zing of pleasure-pain. He reached back to dig his fingers into Chris’ hips, trying to stay on his feet.

Chris chuckled. “Couldn't resist. Sorry.”

Stiles gasped weakly as he tried to focus again. “No, you aren't.” He couldn't really complain though. His dick was very on board with this, already getting uncomfortable in his pants, embarrassingly close to the tips of Peter's fingers. He tried to squirm and press back against Chris, but couldn't get leverage against his tight grip. “Please.” He murmured, the word slipping out almost by accident.

Peter was suddenly in his space again, crowding up against his chest, hands covering his on Chris’ hips and holding them in place. His voice was a teasing purr. “Don't start begging now, sweet boy, you aren't nearly as desperate as you will be.” Then he rocked forward, putting delicious pressure on Stiles’ cock. 

Stiles mewled, twisting helplessly as blood rushed to his cheeks. “Ohmygod.” He tried to arch again, but they had him securely trapped. “Chris—”

“You think I'm going to save you, baby?” Chris’ voice was dark and silky in his ear, and he froze, eyes going wide as something in his brain lit up with want.

Peter was watching him with a wicked smirk, pupils blown. “Poor little red, did you expect the hunter would protect you?”

Stiles started panting, edging towards overwhelmed. He knew he should mock them for being cheesy, but he couldn't string the words together. He just wanted more. “I—I thought—”

Chris growled in his ear, “Fairy tales lie. The hunter is _always_ the dangerous one.” His hand left Stiles’ hip and slid forward to cup him through his pants, squeezing just on the right side of too firm.

His mind went blank again. His mouth dropped open soundlessly as all of his focus went to Chris’ hand kneading his cock. Dimly he heard Peter chuckle.

“You like it a little rough, don't you, Stiles?” Then Peter's lips were on his, tongue licking into his still open mouth, pulling back again and biting his lower lip before he had a chance to react.

Stiles moaned at how dirty it felt to just let Peter _take_. He dragged his mind back into focus and tried to return the kiss. He couldn't argue with the statement, not only would it be a blatant lie—the edge of discomfort to Chris’ grip was _doing things_ to him—Peter was definitely the type to call him on it if he tried. He was starting to feel weak with need, legs twitching as he squirmed in their hold, wanting to buck into Chris’ hand or press back against his cock. His hands flexed where Peter had them trapped on Chris’ hips.

“Do you want us to wreck you, baby?” Chris’ breath was scalding his ear, stubble scraping the delicate shell as he spoke. “Turn you into a drooling mess who can only whine and beg for our cocks?” He thrust forward, erection grinding into Stiles’ ass and making him keen. “Then when we're satisfied with your sweet words, we'll take turns splitting you open and stuffing you full, until you don't remember what words are.”

The prickling heat of his blush traveled down his body, chasing away any lingering cold from the rain. Stiles went light-headed and breathless, trembling under the onslaught of Chris Argent's dirty talk, his cock rock hard and leaking, a litany of, " _please, yes, please_ " tumbling past his lips. Peter looked equally affected, nostrils flaring, hands gripping Stiles’ wrists.

Chris, unfortunately, released Stiles’ cock and moved large hands to his hips, pulling him back from Peter and making him stand on his own. No longer supported by anything but Peter's hold, Stiles swayed, dizzy, and moaned in disappointment.

“Kneel, baby.” The purred command from Chris flooded his brain, and he found himself on his knees before the words finished processing. 

Peter released his wrists, fingers trailing over delicate skin and across the backs of his hands. Dropping his arms to his sides, Stiles stared up at the werewolf, pupils blown, brain suck in a loop of _want_.

“So good for us.” Chris’ fingers carded through his hair, then gripped the short strands at the back and tugged. Stiles let his head fall back at the pressure. His lips parted with a soft moan as he fought to keep his eyes open. Chris loomed over him, a smug half-smile on his face, his eyes lit with desire. “Now, watch.” He looked up at Peter. “Strip. Let him see you.” He loosened the hold on Stiles’ hair, petting again, and let him raise his head.

Peter's expression was lust mixed with wicked glee as he peeled off the t-shirt—one of Chris’, Stiles noted. His muscles flexed in ways that had to be supernatural, and Stiles licked his lips, swallowing hard when he was reminded of the nipple piercings. He wanted to taste them almost more than he wanted Peter to keep going. He sucked in a fast breath when Peter's hands moved to the waistband of his sleep pants and started to slide them down. 

“So eager, baby. Just wait.” He only realized he was squirming when Chris' hand settled on the back of his neck to hold him in place.

Stiles actually gasped, eyes going wide when Peter's cock finally sprung free. He was long and thick—no surprise there, no one with Peter Hale's confidence had a small dick—the piercing at the tip, however, made Stiles’ brain fill with static. He whined, high in his throat, and jerked against Chris’ hold as his mouth fell open. “Oh, fuck…” He was pretty sure his own cock was leaking, and he knew his mouth was watering. 

Peter, the asshole, laughed at him as he finished shucking off his pants. “Like what you see, sweetheart? Have you ever sucked someone with a Prince Albert?”

Stiles was still making soft sounds of want. He shook his head 'no’, eyes wide and fixed. He had never needed a dick in his mouth so badly in his life. 

“Easy,” Chris murmured, free hand coming up to cradle Stiles’ jaw. He eased his thumb between Stiles’ lips, catching inside his bottom teeth and tugging. Stiles licked at him desperately and tried to suck despite the awkward grip—he let out a pleased moan when Chris pressed deeper.

Peter’s eyes flashed red, and he finally stepped forward so that Stiles could reach out and slide his hands over muscular thighs, fingers digging in as he tried to bring Peter even closer. He whimpered around Chris’ thumb and hollowed his cheeks, pleading. He _wanted_ , and Chris wasn’t letting him. Peter’s hard length was so close he could smell him—musky and salty—and he was going to lose his mind.

Chris drew Stiles back by his hair again, other hand moving to cup his throat, and Stiles growled at him, eyes narrowed in frustration. “Chris!” 

“I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to show us both what that gorgeous mouth of yours can do, aren’t you, baby?”

“God, yes. Please, Chris—” He choked on a whimper when Chris dove down and claimed his mouth in a kiss that made him forget to breathe. When Chris pulled away again he was left gasping, reeling. 

Suddenly Peter was cradling his face, thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones as he drew him closer. Stiles refocused when the soft head of Peter’s cock brushed his lower lip, warm metal catching against it. “Ready, sweetheart?” Peter was grinning down at him.

Stiles smiled back, then opened his mouth and flicked his tongue against the piercing. They both groaned.

_Finally._

Letting his eyes fall half-closed, Stiles put all his ADHD hyper-focusing skills towards driving Peter insane. There was nothing about giving blow jobs he didn’t like—the smell, the taste, the stretch of a thick cock filling his mouth and pressing deep. It was all just as pleasurable as the sounds he could draw from his partner, the feeling of making them lose control, and the giddy satisfaction at their fucked out awe afterward.

Stiles was a blow job addict. 

He started with little kitten licks around the head, occasionally dipping into the slit or flicking his tongue against the piercing. He had been day-dreaming of this for months. The piercing was a cherry on top and he was going to enjoy every second, for as long as Peter would let him. 

Running his lips down the length of the shaft, he turned his head at the last moment to smear pre-come against his cheek—Peter's low groan told him the wolf appreciated the scent marking. Dipping down he paid some attention to the velvety balls at the base, licking and pressing with the tip of his tongue, sucking one into his mouth and then the other until Peter grunted softly and shifted, obviously ready for more, but trying to let Stiles explore.

With a smirk, he pressed a kiss where the shaft curved up, then ran his tongue, hard, up the length and sucked the head into his mouth. Peter twitched and let out a low growl. Fluttering his tongue against the ring, Stiles moaned at the taste of another burst of pre-come. He wanted more of Peter's sounds.

“Fuck, kid.” Chris’ voice was rough, strained with lust, and it made Stiles moan and take Peter deeper. The piercing felt a little strange rubbing against the roof of his mouth, but not bad. He retreated, then did it again, trying to get used to the sensation. Dancing his tongue across the underside on the way down, and sucking hard when he pulled back, he allowed a slow rhythm to start building. Peter rocked with it gently, fingers stroking over his face, but not directing him.

“That's it, sweet boy. Take your time, get used to it.” He sounded breathless but still in control, and Stiles was determined to change that.

He paused to suckle at the head as his hands kneaded Peter's thighs, then slid up to cup his balls, fingers light against delicate skin. He dipped his tongue into the ring, playing with flicking it back and forth, entranced by the slide of metal through skin and the little shivers Peter gave each time he did it. Some day Stiles wanted to curl up between his legs and see how long he would let Stiles play—just giving it little licks and kisses until Peter came from that alone. Not today though. Today he needed more.

Pausing again with half of the hard length in his mouth, lips stretched wide, Stiles looked up and met Peter’s eyes. Peter was flushed, color high on his cheeks and mouth slightly open as he panted. Stiles thought he saw a hint of fang. It sent a thrill through him that he could push the wolf so far, so easily. 

With a pleased groan and his eyes locked on Peter’s face, he slid forward and let Peter's cock fill his mouth until it hit the back of his throat, then waited for a second before pulling back with a gasp. Usually deep-throating was a non-issue—his gag reflex trained away with determination and a piece of life-like silicone—but the piercing made things a little different. 

Stiles loved a challenge.

Pressing deep, he swallowed around the head as his body tried to fight and his eyes teared. He looked up at Peter again, gauging his reaction. Peter was breathing fast, nostrils flaring, eyes fixed on Stiles’ mouth. Stiles only drew back far enough to take a breath before diving down again. 

His eyes were watering freely now, tears slipping down his cheeks to mix with the drool on his chin. Swallowing past the discomfort, he gripped Peter’s hips and pressed forward until he felt the flared head finally slide down his throat. Peter let out a startled shout and arched as Stiles completed the motion and pressed his nose to Peter’s belly. He held himself there for a moment, shuddering, throat automatically working around the rock hard erection blocking his airway. His own cock was twitching in his pants, leaking steadily as his body fought for air. Finally, he had to breathe. He pulled back, gasping in a lung-full before swallowing him down again, giddy with success. Peter was growling now, and Stiles could hear Chris groan softly over his own slurping and cut off moans.

He started a faster rhythm, swallowing around Peter when he could, but mostly keeping up the suction with his mouth. He wanted Peter to come, and he wanted to taste it. It only took a few minutes—and one more hard flick of his tongue against the ring—before Peter’s abs were tensing and he was pressing forward with a guttural growl, cock pulsing as he spilled across Stiles’ tongue. Stiles moaned happily while Peter’s hands stroked his hair and cradled his head as Stiles drank him down. When Peter eventually, reluctantly pulled away, Stiles tipped his head back and gave him a blissed-out smile. 

Peter’s chest was still rising and falling fast, but he managed to lift an eyebrow at him. “Never seen a Prince Albert before?”

“No.” Stiles’ voice was wrecked in the best way. “I like it though.” He licked his swollen lips, chasing after Peter’s flavor. “Ten out of ten. Would do again.” He swayed and two sets of hands caught him.

“That was very impressive.” Chris’ hands were strong but gentle as they turned him and resettled him facing in the other direction. “Now, catch your breath, baby.” 

Stiles felt Peter drop down behind him, strong thighs bracketing his legs, chest braced against his back. He tried to follow Chris’ directions—leaning against Peter's bare skin and taking deep, slow breaths—but looking up at the man, flushed and aroused while still so in control, honestly took his breath away. “Please?”

“Please what?” Chris’ eyes were sparkling with excitement as he watched them.

Stiles went a little cross-eyed when Peter’s hands slipped under the hem of his shirt and started tracing circles on his skin. “Please let me suck you?”

“Why should I?”

Stiles shivered and licked his lips. Chris wanted him to beg? He could handle that. “I need it.” His voice was rough and scratchy, not nearly recovered enough for normal speech, but he still wanted to make Chris give in, lose control. “I've wanted it for so long. Ever since I—I saw you in the shower. I wanted to go to my knees right then.” He ducked his head, voice going softer as he fought through the burn of embarrassment, trusting that the reward would be worth it. “I can't stop thinking about what you'd taste like, how good it would feel.” He glanced up through his lashes, but couldn't meet Chris' eyes. He knew his cheeks were red, and his breath was hitching. “Please let me? I need it so bad.” Swallowing hard, he dropped his gaze to the outline of Chris’ erection through his pants and licked his lips again. "Please?"

There was a soft groan and Chris stepped closer, foot nudging Stiles’ knees wide until he could stand between them. “Alright, sweet boy, I wasn't trying to make you suffer.” He threaded his fingers through Stiles’ hair again, tilting his head up and rubbing his scalp. His eyes were warm and possessive. “You know that, right?”

Stiles nodded, leaning forward to nuzzle his face against the hard length trapped in Chris’ pants. “I know,” He said, lips tracing the shape of him, hot breath dampening the fabric. He was already feeling kind of dizzy, just from being this close. He was about to go for the zipper when Chris eased him back again. He made a sound that was half whine, half growl as his prize was taken away.

“Just wait. Be patient for me.” Chris’ hands went to his own pants and unbuttoned them, sliding the zipper down at a glacial pace while Stiles squirmed and tried not to arch closer. “That’s good. Look at you.” He rubbed his thumb over Stiles’ lower lip, pressing against it gently. “All swollen from sucking Peter. Are you sore, baby?”

Stiles shook his head no, suddenly too strung out to speak.

“Just wait until I’m done with you. I’ve been dreaming about your mouth stretched around me, feeling you choke on my cock.” Chris looked over at Peter. “Do you know he sucks on anything that stays in range long enough? Pens, beer bottles, straws, utensils. He thought I was asleep on the couch one night, and started practicing on his own fingers. Drives me fucking insane.” He tugged on Stiles’ hair once, firmly. It made Stiles moan, low and helpless and he blushed furiously. He had no idea Chris had seen that. “Are you going to be sweet and let me fuck your face?”

His words sunk into Stiles’ mind, touching and lighting up places that he'd never noticed before, making the world feel syrup slow. His mouth fell open. “Yes. I—yes.”

Chris reached down and finally eased himself free of his pants. Stiles’ couldn’t hold back a sob of desire, because if he thought Chris was impressive when he was soft and climbing out of the shower, it had nothing on seeing him hard and glistening, the broad tip flushed, veins standing out on the long, thick shaft. Saliva pooled under his tongue and he licked at his lips, needing Chris in his mouth like, six months ago.

“So desperate,” Chris purred, large hand gripping his cock and stroking himself once, slowly.

Stiles whined, eyes locked on the erection that was held just out of his reach. “Please...”

Chris shifted that crucial final inch forward and Stiles stretched his tongue out to taste, lapping at him. He heard Chris’ breathing hitch and felt Peter chuckle against his back as the salty flavor exploded across his taste buds. 

“Eager little slut,” Peter said in his ear, one hand sliding up Stiles’ chest under his shirt and twisting a nipple, hard enough to startle. Stiles’ resulting groan was loud, and he arched into the flash of pain, cock twitching in his pants. “Pain slut,” Peter murmured, sounding pleased.

Stiles couldn't bring himself to argue, too distracted with trying to get more of that gorgeous cock in his mouth. He shifted his gaze up to meet Chris’ eyes, trying to put all of his desperation into his expression, mouth wide, tongue tracing what he could reach.

“Fuck,” Chris said breathlessly, and eased forward, giving Stiles what he wanted. 

Stiles moaned, low and satisfied as he finally, _finally_ wrapped his lips around Chris. He was floating on a cloud of endorphins and oh, this was going to be sloppy. He had no patience left for teasing.

“That's it, baby. Good boy.” Chris sounded wrecked as Stiles licked and sucked, his hold keeping Stiles in place and only feeding him more with short thrusts of his hips. 

Stiles whimpered, pleading every time he drew in a breath, stretching his tongue as far as he could, exploring the shape, wanting to feel Chris everywhere. He needed Chris' cock inside of him, deep enough that he would feel it for days. 

Chris was controlling him with his grip, and Stiles tried to fight for more, straining against the hold. His skin was hot, prickling and sensitive, and suddenly he had to close his eyes to keep back tears, not sure why he wanted to cry when he was finally getting what he had wanted for so long and it felt so good. 

He started trembling, adrift. His hands twitched and fidgeted at his sides, fluttering for something to cling to but not sure where to touch. Finally, Peter reached out and gripped his wrists, squeezed firmly, and moved Stiles' hands back to press against muscular thighs. Stiles felt something settle as he dug his fingers into Peter's skin, moaning softly in gratitude. Peter dropped a kiss to his shoulder, murmuring something encouraging. Stiles turned his full attention back to Chris, who had paused in his thrusting and was cupping Stiles’ cheek, thumb pressing lightly to feel himself through the thin skin.

“Stiles?”

Stiles looked up at his name and met Chris’ concerned gaze. He had gotten lost for a moment, all wrapped up in the overwhelming thoughts and sensations, and forgotten that he was safe. This was Chris. It made him smile, despite his mouth being stuffed full. He closed his lips and sucked hard, tongue rubbing in firm encouragement.

Chris’ pupils dilated sharply and his next thrust was deeper, touching the back of Stiles’ throat before settling into a shallow rhythm, careful now when Stiles didn’t want him to be. That wouldn't work at all. 

Sucking in his cheeks, he purposefully let Chris feel the lightest graze of teeth. Chris' hips stuttered and he growled, rewarding Stiles with another deeper thrust that made his eyes roll back. That was better, but still not enough.

“Brat.” Chris sounded amused, and his thumbs stroked the hollows of Stiles’ cheeks fondly before he pulled him forward yet again. 

That started a new, heavier rhythm, each press forward hitting up against the back of his throat and making him grunt softly, but not going deep where he wanted it. It was frustrating. He knew he could do this and Chris wasn’t letting him. He debated another try at encouragement by teeth, but before he could follow through Chris shifted his grip, thumbs pressing into the hinge of his jaw and holding him helpless and open. He let out a muffled growl and looked up, glaring.

Chris’ gaze burned through him, ice blue eyes alight with desire and fervent possession. Stiles was _his_. He felt something unfurl inside him in response that turned his protests to jelly. He moaned softly, melting, all of the fight gone as he gave himself over to the silent claim. 

On Chris’ next thrust he concentrated on just taking what he was offered, swallowing around him and licking lazily at what he could reach. Warmth flowed through his limbs, making his fingertips tingle and his cock leak steadily in his pants. He relaxed further, letting Peter take his weight, body hardly protesting the intrusion that he wanted so badly.

“There you go.” Chris pressed deeper on the next thrust, and Stiles felt the solid girth just barely breach his throat. “So good for me. Just relax and take it. Peter will tell me if you need to stop.”

It took him a few long seconds to register that Chris was giving him a werewolf, instead of a safeword. Then his brain was swept away again. On the next slow, powerful thrust, Chris pressed deep, and Stiles couldn’t have stopped him if he wanted to. 

Chris was big, larger than even the biggest dildo in his toy-box, and Stiles' throat was forced open and fluttering around him as he swallowed convulsively. Involuntary tears spilled from his eyes and ran down his cheeks. It was almost too much, and he felt a moment of panic that he wasn’t going to be able to take it after all. Then Chris was pulling back, just as slow and steady, and Stiles gasped in a breath as soon as he was able. 

He managed two before Chris was filling his throat again, and it was just as overwhelming as the first time. He focused on opening up and letting him in, blinking rapidly against the tears. 

This time Chris didn’t stop at all, continuing until Stiles’ nose was flush against the soft hair at the base of his cock. 

Stiles felt himself twitch helplessly, unable to see past the tears, or breathe. His chest heaved in an attempt to draw air, but he fought the reaction back down, knowing it would just choke him. This was what he wanted. Chris inside him, carving out a place for himself. He wasn’t going to quit now.

“Relax.” Peter squeezed his wrists, voice low and sure in his ear. “It will get easier in a minute.”

Somehow Peter’s words broke through, and the subconscious battle inside him unraveled. Chris withdrew just long enough for him to take another breath and then he was thrusting, starting a rhythm. Stiles let himself go, giving up the last of his control to the two men surrounding him. After a minute he found his own rhythm, his body adjusted, and Peter was right. It was easier, and then suddenly, it was amazing. 

Chris slid down his throat, filling and stretching, deeper than he had ever had anyone before. It made his whole body light up. His skin was buzzing, and his mind went blank of everything except desire and sensation and _Chrischrischris_. 

He reveled in it, high off of the endorphins and lack of oxygen. Slurping and sucking, he hardly remembered that he was supposed to breathe. He was already dizzy when Chris thrust deep and held himself there, one hand tight against the back of Stiles’ head, the other cupping his throat and feeling how it was stretched and fluttering around him. 

Stiles started to tremble, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he rode the tidal wave of feeling. It was doubled when he felt Peter’s hand come up and trace the skin between Chris’ fingers, feeling for himself the place where Stiles was stuffed full. For a moment Stiles thought he might actually come from that alone—if only Chris would finish.

But Chris wasn’t coming, just holding himself still, buried to the hilt in Stiles’ throat. Stiles raised his eyes, trying to see Chris' face but unable to. Something pinged in the back of his brain that he needed to breathe, but it was secondary to how good everything else felt. He let his eyes fall shut and waited—five seconds, ten—he was losing count. Then, Peter’s free hand slid down and pressed flat against his throbbing erection.

Stiles convulsed, orgasm hitting him like an out of control teenage beta, blindsiding him with it's intensity. His scream was choked to silence by Chris’ cock, but the two men could feel it vibrate under their hands as his eyes rolled back and he shook, nails digging into Peter’s thighs hard enough to draw blood. He forgot completely about the need for air and the burning in his throat and lungs. It went on and on. When Chris finally eased back, releasing his head and throat, oxygen flooded his brain like the biggest dopamine high and sent him shuddering and shaking all over again. 

He collapsed against Peter, gasping, chest heaving, face awash with tears and spit, and grinning like a lunatic. Peter started laughing, sounding a little oxygen deprived himself.

“Look at you.” He scattered kisses across Stiles’ neck, dragging down the collar of his shirt to get to his bare shoulder so he could bite it. “You’re fucking unbelievable. God, I want to fuck you.” He pulled Stiles’ head around and licked up his cheek, tasting his tears and avoiding his open, gasping mouth. “How the fuck are you so perfect?” He bit Stiles’ throat and Stiles just let his head loll with the motion, humming brokenly in response. It amused him that Peter, the lawyer, couldn’t seem to come up with a word other than ‘fuck’.

Chris was still standing over them, and after catching his breath for a moment he knelt, carding fingers through Stiles’ hair, petting him and stroking his cheek. “You were _perfect_.”

Stiles lifted his gaze and grinned, blissed out and floating, not trusting his voice to be worth anything at the moment.

Chris was cradling his face, and Peter was still trailing kisses and bites over his skin. “You took me so well. I knew you would as soon as I saw how you swallowed Peter down.” Chris’ voice was warm and proud, maybe a little bit awed. “You loved it, didn’t you?”

Stiles nodded. He couldn't stop smiling because he really, really did. That was currently in his top three sexual experience, ever—the only reason it wasn't number one was because he was reserving a spot for when they actually fucked him. He was a little surprised at Chris’ awe though. He figured people would be tripping over themselves for some of that. Peter seemed to sense his confusion—or more likely was able to smell it on him.

“Most people can't take it.” His words were muffled against Stiles’ skin. “Present company excluded of course.”

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows at Chris in a silent question.

Chris’ lips quirked up, amused. “It scares them. They don't want to do it. Or, if they try and fail, they complain like hell afterward. It's not worth it most of the time.” He leaned down, brushing a kiss to Stiles’ sore lips. “You and Peter are the only ones who’ve managed.”

Stiles gave a broken hum of understanding, pride mixing with the warm satisfaction he was floating in, that he could give Chris this. “Any time,” He managed to get out, voice ravaged. He stretched up to return the kiss, which Chris grinned into.

“You want some water?”

He nodded, and a minute later Chris was wrapping his hand around a glass and helping him lift it. It reminded him of Peter earlier with the juice, and he felt warm at the realization that—despite the unbelievably kinky sex they were suddenly having—they were treating him with the same care as before.

He drank his water, letting the moisture easy the ache in his throat as he eyed Chris, whose cock was still rock hard and standing proud in front of him. Stiles felt a pang that he didn’t get to make him come.

“Don’t fret, darling,” Peter’s voice was teasing, obviously still riding high. “Argent can go for hours with the right motivation.” He shifted his hips forward and rubbed his renewed erection against Stiles’ ass. “And I have supernatural healing, which means almost no waiting. Think you can keep up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags/warnings: very kinky sex, everyone is very into it, werewolf powers used instead of a safe-word, tattoos, piercings, one of them has a cock piercing, graphic blow job descriptions, seriously about 8 pages of it, breath play.  
> And to reiterate, in case anyone has forgotten: Dom/sub elements, sub Stiles, rough sex, under-negotiated kink, face fucking, begging.
> 
> This was fun to write. I hope it was worth the wait!!
> 
> Also, this was my first time writing/posting porn, so please be kind?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand-million thank yous to Twisted_Mind for helping me edit this chapter, holding my hand while I panicked over word-choice, and for answering my millions of questions about commas. I don’t know where I would be without your help—probably still Googling “what’s a conjunction?”. 
> 
> **A couple additional tags/warnings for this chapter are at the end.**

_“Don’t fret darling.” Peter’s voice was teasing, obviously still riding high. “Argent can go for hours with the right motivation.” He shifted his hips forward, rubbing his renewed erection against Stiles’ ass. “And I have supernatural healing, which means almost no waiting. Think you can keep up?”_

Stiles turned wide eyes up to Chris’ face. The man grinned down at him. “I told you we were going to wreck you. Did you think we were done?” He swooped down, lips covering Stiles’ gaping mouth and dipping his tongue inside. The kiss started off oddly gentle, until Stiles realized Chris was being careful not to hurt his still-tender mouth. He reached up and sank fingers into Chris’ hair, pulling him into a real kiss, not particularly worried about comfort at the moment.

“Bossy,” Peter snarked from behind him, and Stiles huffed out a silent laugh. Of the three of them, he was _definitely_ not the bossy one.

Chris broke the kiss just enough to smile down at him. “No, just a brat.” 

Stiles gave Chris his most lethal puppy eyes in retaliation.

Chris blinked at him, looking a little stunned, before shaking his head and chuckling. “Careful, you'll get yourself in trouble with those.” He thumbed Stiles’ pouting lower lip, then sat back, looking over the two of them. “Put him in the bedroom Peter, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“What?” Stiles managed to squeak out. He squirmed when Peter lifted him like he was made of hollow bird bones, but his muscles were too jelly-like for more of a protest. “I'm not luggage!”

He was, however, no match for werewolf strength, so he settled for plucking at and twisting one of the man’s nipple rings, making Peter hiss as he was carried down the hallway. It got him dropped the two feet to the bed. “Hey!” he yelped as he bounced.

Peter's resulting grin was full of teeth as he set about wrestling Stiles out of his wet shoes. “You want to play rough? You only had to—well... you don't actually have to ask.” He leered as he pulled Stiles to a sitting position and dragged his shirt over his head, then shoved him back down again, where he sprawled, flushed and gaping.

“What? That's not—” He was struggling to complete a thought, brain still overwhelmed mush from how freaking intense that orgasm had been.

Peter's deft fingers unfastened Stiles’ pants and dragged them to his knees, leaving him naked from the thighs up. Then, before Stiles could react, he crawled onto the bed, knee between Stiles’ legs, pinning the bunched denim down to the mattress and trapping him.

Stiles flushed and tried to bury his face in his hands. He wasn't normally body-shy, but Peter was ripped and hard, while Stiles was all long lean lines, still soft and messy with come. He thought he would have a little more warning before either of them saw him naked.

Peter paused, kneeling over him, his eyes raking down his torso, taking in the fox tattoo curling up Stiles’ rib cage. “Well, this is unexpected,” his fingertip traced over the line of the fox's back, feeling the texture of the scars it hid. “Beautiful work.” Stiles peeked through his hands and smiled at him, pleased with the reaction, and that Peter wasn't asking about the scars. 

The wolf smiled back, then inhaled deeply, and the expression shifted to a wicked smirk. “You like this. Being trapped, and at my mercy.” He ducked down, licking a line up the crease of Stiles’ hip.

Stiles gasped and his dick twitched. “Fuck, yes.” His hands flew to Peter's hair, fingers sinking in, not sure if he was pushing him away or keeping him there. Peter grinned.

“Can't hide from me.” He licked up the other side, avoiding his cock, and Stiles, still too sensitive, tried to wiggle away, but was definitely, thoroughly pinned from the hips down. 

“Peter, wait—” he pulled Peter’s hair, trying to redirect him, and Peter looked up, locking eyes as he continued to nuzzle and lick Stiles clean, humming like he was savoring it. Stiles gave in, but hid his face in his arms again. His struggles turning to trembling and hitched breaths when Peter found spots that made sparks dance across his skin. When Peter licked up the soft line of his cock, he arched with a low groan, shivering when he fell back.

Finally, Peter moved on, kissing and licking his way up until he was braced over Stiles, and pulled his hands away from his face. “Didn’t I say no hiding?”

Stiles glared. “No. You said—” he yelped in surprise when Peter moved supernaturally fast, grabbing him by the hip and shoulder, and flipping him over to his stomach. Before he could react he was manhandled up onto his knees, and pinned by his pants again. 

Peter leaned over him, a line of delicious heat along his back. He was pressed close, one hand drifting up Stiles’ abs, fingers circling and teasing a nipple. “You like a little pain with your pleasure, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Stiles swallowed hard as heat flashed through him, want making him arch into the touch. The whimpered, “Yes. Please,” fell from his lips thoughtlessly.

Peter pulled back, fingers leaving his chest. One of his hands moved to grasp Stiles by the shoulder and hold him still. That wasn’t exactly what Stiles had been aiming for, and he whined. “What are you—?”

His words were cut off by the fiery sting in his backside, the sound of the slap registering a second later. He choked on a gasp, fingers curling into the sheet and hanging on. Peter’s palm had caught him on the meat of his ass, and he hitched in several breaths, trying to restart his brain around the burn.

That wasn’t werewolf strength, but it wasn’t a gentle, teasing smack, either. He'd been spanked by lovers before, usually half-hearted little things that didn't do much for him. This was something else, and he felt his brain latch onto it, awareness trying to narrow down to Peter's touch and the stinging of his skin.

“Stiles.” There was a long pause and Peter's thumb dipped to trace Stiles’ second tattoo, small, and just below the knob of his spine. That made him jolt back to reality. He was sure Peter was going to comment on the mark. He tensed, silently willing him not to ask, because talking about that tattoo would grind everything to a halt all over again. 

Then Peter slid his hand up to caress Stiles’ neck, while the other hand came back to his ass, rubbing, reminding him about the sting. His voice was teasing when he spoke again. “Is Christopher right? Are you being a brat?”

Stiles mewled and ducked his head, blush creeping down his neck as he realized what Peter was getting at. “No,” he whispered, knowing his heartbeat was tripping over itself with the lie.

He tensed, expecting Peter’s palm against his skin again, and squeaked in surprise when the man grabbed one thigh instead, tugging his legs wider, arranging him to be more stable. He almost turned, but a hand between his shoulder blades pushed his upper body firmly against the mattress and held him there. Angling his head to the side, he only got a glimpse of Peter's mouth, curved up in a grin, before his ass lit up with another smack. This one made him groan, and twist against the hand holding him down. “I’m not!”

“You know I can hear you lying, right, darling?” He traced a finger over the rapidly warming skin, making Stiles moan and arch. “Which makes me think you want more.”

Stiles licked his lips, and held very still, deciding what his answer should be. Did he want Peter to keep going, spank his ass bright red and throbbing? But if he agreed to acting like a brat, would he get spanked for that too? The needy, desperate part of his brain was totally on board, he just had to figure out if the rational part was, too.

“Are you going to tell me the truth, Stiles?” Peter's tone was different, silky smooth, and it caught his attention. Stiles flushed hard, squirming with embarrassed arousal when he recognized the 'lawyer’ voice. The one he used when he was interviewing difficult witnesses, and a tone that played a part in several of Stiles’ kinkier office fantasies. Who the hell was he kidding? This whole _thing_ was straight out of one of his fantasies. The goddamn werewolf senses meant Peter knew exactly how hot it made him, too.

Three more smacks fell. They were teasing, barely enough to warm his skin. It made him ache for more, and Stiles was tempted to fight a little, just to see what Peter would do.

Time to make a decision—lie and get a spanking, or tell the truth, the consequences of which he didn't know. Which really wasn't the choice at all. He was relatively sure the real choice was play along, or tell Peter ‘no’, and it didn't matter what the unknown consequences were. It was all just part of the game. He licked his lips.

“Tell the truth?” He tried to put some snark into his voice, but had a feeling he wasn’t entirely successful. “What if I tell you to stop?”

“Then I’ll stop.” The hands holding him down loosened, no longer applying pressure, just touching, soothing.

Stiles took a slow breath. Then another, feeling the supernatural heat against his ass, the tingling of his skin. He thought about Peter’s sharp grin, his sparkling blue eyes. Peter at the office, distracting him from his overtired meltdown with wicked teasing and orders to go home. The sensation of Peter’s hands cradling his face, wiping away the tears of his panic attack, scent-marking him. Peter’s strength at his back, supporting him when he was on his knees for Chris. The fact that Peter had picked up on every single one of his kinks so far. That he kept pushing just hard enough to be thrilling. Stiles trusted him, and wanted more.

“Not a brat,” he said clearly, heart pounding loudly enough that the whole apartment could probably hear the lie. He lifted his hips, arching up into Peter’s stroking hand.

There was a grin in Peter’s voice. “Oh, sweetheart, you are _trouble_.”

The pressure of Peter’s hold returned until Stiles was thoroughly trapped. Then the spanking started again, firmer now, making his breath stutter as he arched helplessly, fingers digging into the sheets and clinging. A particularly sharp smack caught him high on the back of the thigh and he yelped, burying his face in the mattress. The hand hit the same spot on the opposite side, drawing a shout and a muffled “fuck”. His cock was twitching with each jolt of pain, hardening more quickly than he thought possible.

“Hmm.” The hand between his shoulder blades shifted and slid to grip the back of his neck again. “I think I want to hear your delicious sounds.”

Stiles scrambled a little as he was lifted to his elbows, mentally cursing werewolf strength and Peter’s unwillingness to let him hide. With the hold on his neck keeping him still, he had no way to muffle the cry the next smack pulled out of him, and he was sure his face was now as red as his ass.

His skin throbbed in time with his pulse, and Peter was dragging continuous gasps and yelps from him as he scattered slaps across both cheeks and down the backs of both thighs. It was overwhelming in the best way. It pushed away everything but sensation, making his focus narrow down to nothing but here and now and Peter. He let himself fall into it, let it wash over him and pull him under. His voice was just starting to sound a little wet and shaky when Peter paused, fingers trailing along sensitized skin. “Pretty boy. My marks look so good on you. I wonder how long they’ll stay.”

The words drew him back out of the place his mind wanted to go. Stiles whimpered at the implication behind them—at carrying the werewolf's marks, at being called pretty—and ducked his head, trying to catch his breath. He lost it all again on a sharp cry when a hot tongue swept over one stinging cheek. “Peter!”

“Why do you taste like lube, sweetheart?”

Stiles choked a little from the sudden, shocked flood of embarrassment. When he didn’t answer immediately, Peter grazed him with sharp teeth, making his breath catch. He tried to force as much annoyance into his tone as possible. “You...you _know_ why.” Peter had been able to hear him through the wall last night, could probably smell what he had been doing, too. He was only asking to be an asshole. 

The snark earned him the light drag of thankfully-human nails across his heated skin. He arched back into the touch helplessly. “P-please!”

“Are you going to answer him, baby?”

Stiles moaned, and pulled against Peter’s hold in desperate mortification when Chris appeared out of nowhere. The hunter sat on the bed in front of him, and Stiles realized he had no idea how long Chris had been there, listening and watching as Peter turned his ass red. The thought jacked his arousal up even higher.

Chris reached out to cup his chin and lift his head. Heart thumping suddenly, Stiles averted his eyes, unwilling to see the expression on Chris’ face. If he did, he would give in—would admit what he had been doing the previous night when Chris brought Peter home. That he’d listened to them. That he‘d been jealous.

Distracted, he was unprepared for Peter to grip his ass with both hands and knead, sending fiery tingles racing to his limbs. Stiles groaned, writhing as his brain short-circuited again.

“You can tell us, Stiles,” Peter said, his voice syrup sweet. “What did you do after work last night?”

“I—I had a beer, and took a shower.” He held himself still, fighting off the haze of arousal, knowing Peter wouldn’t hear a lie.

“Hmm. But that’s not all.” A warm hand slid to the inside of one trembling thigh, rubbing gently. “You were hard and aching when I left you at the office, weren’t you, sweetheart?”

Stiles whimpered and pressed his face into Chris’ palm, trying to hide. “Fuck off.”

Peter’s hand smacked against the sensitive skin it had been caressing, making Stiles yelp, and his dick twitch, pre-come oozing from the tip. “You were. You smelled like arousal and desperation. Like you do right now. If I had opened my pants you would have fallen on my cock in the hallway, isn’t that right?”

Stiles felt a wash of heat prickle across the back of his neck and down his arms, not sure if it was from how close that statement was to his actual thoughts while kneeling on the office floor, or from how hard his dick was, centimeters from the fingertips Peter was trailing over his skin. “Yes,” he whispered, shutting his eyes against Chris’ gaze, because god, he’d wanted to, had been nearly gagging for it.

“Two showers in one day. Why's that, baby?” Chris’ voice was a low, vibrating growl that shuddered down his spine. “Did Peter leave you aching, make you needy?”

Stiles refused to answer, unable to admit he’d been jacking off, fucking himself, to fantasies of the two of them. It was humiliating to realize how much he wanted their attention. And now that he had it, he didn't want to scare the older men off by admitting how much he needed this.

He gasped when Chris' hand slid down his back, skin on skin for the first time. Everything they’d done, and Chris still hadn't touched him like this. Without anything between them. His mouth dropped open and his eyes lost focus. He’d had dreams about Chris' hands, broad and strong and always so steady. He wasn't sure how many nights he had spent sitting on the couch next to the man, craving his touch.

When the gun-callused hand grabbed his ass and squeezed lightly, Stiles' whined, high and desperate, his whole body quivering.

"Beautiful," Chris rasped. The want in his voice made Stiles strain forward, trying to bury his face in the soft cotton-covered chest.

Peter's grip was firm on his hips, steadying as Stiles did his best not to fall apart. Everything was hot. Sensitized. He needed more. Now. He may have been muttering something to that effect.

Chris' hand stroked the burning curve of his ass once, cupping gently for a moment before following the same slow path back to his shoulder. Stiles nuzzled him, whining again, and Chris chuckled, broad palm returning to cradle Stiles jaw.

Peter’s voice, when he spoke, was smug, still teasing. “Are you going to tell us what we want to hear, sweetheart?" 

It took a moment for Stiles to remember the question, what Peter wanted him to admit. He was so close to letting go, endorphins trying to break apart what was left of his embarrassment. “Were you stroking your pretty cock, all wet and slippery? Did you think about one of us touching you?”

Stiles groaned, giving in. Trusting. "Yes."

“Did you make yourself come?” He shivered at Chris’ tone, the desire obvious, but shook his head no. The next question was softer, and held a hint of surprise. “You didn’t?”

Stiles glanced up, flushed and not quite meeting Chris’ eyes, before dropping his gaze again. “No. You came home.”

“Poor thing.” Peter’s lips brushed the small of his back again, tongue darting out to taste. “You were so close, right on the edge. I thought for sure you would, especially after I let you hear me.”

Stiles whimpered, embarrassed yet again by how easily Peter could push his buttons. He leaned into Chris' chest, soaking in the heat of him, as he did he best to hide. “Asshole...” 

The memory of trying to lie still, listening to the sounds they were making, overlaid with visuals now that he knew it was Peter, came rushing back. His cock twitched against his thigh and he shifted, reaching down to grip it, needing the simulation before his brain short-circuited completely. He didn’t even get close before his hand was caught and pulled away. Stiles growled, but didn’t fight Chris’ hold.

“Did you like listening to us, baby?”

Stiles did resist then, twitching ineffectively, twisting his wrist back and forth. “No.” He wanted to turn away from them but Peter was still holding his hips, still had his legs trapped against the bed.

“Why not?” Chris asked, voice soft. He was rubbing a gentle thumb against the inside of Stiles' wrist, and Stiles found himself staring, wanting to explain.

“Because you—it wasn’t—” He ground his teeth for a moment, then forced himself to use his words, and give the real reason. “I was jealous. You chose a stranger. I was right here—” he didn’t get to finish before lips covered his, and Chris kissed him breathless, tongue claiming his mouth all over again while he mewled and arched closer. He panted when Chris broke the kiss, clinging.

“I was an idiot. Can you forgive me?” Chris looked like he was seriously waiting for Stiles verdict.

Stiles choked a little on a laugh. “Yeah.” He gave Peter a look over his shoulder, realizing how stupid it was to worry about this now, when he was hard, trembling, and just as worked up as the night before. This time though, he was in bed with two gorgeous men, who were hopefully planning to do something about it. “You’re gonna make it up to me, right?”

Chris relaxed, and gave him a smirk that was worthy of the man behind them. “Cheeky. Maybe I should show you what you missed, first. Do you like to watch, baby?”

Stiles felt his blush rush back at the question, at the heat that stirred in his belly, but nodded anyway, because fuck yeah, he wanted to see them together. He glanced at Peter again, who looked insufferably smug. Before he could turn back around, he found himself folded, face down against the bed, his arms directed behind him, fingers touching the opposite elbows. He made an inarticulate sound of surprise when Chris squeezed his wrist, then wrapped something soft around it. 

“Yes or no, baby.”

Stiles whined, his erection twitching, mind blanking. “Yes, yes.”

The fabric was wrapped deftly around one wrist and elbow. Something similar, but not as soft, bound the other hand, and with a few tugs they were pulled tight.

“I liked that tie.” Peter sounded like he might be pouting.

“You can buy another one.” Chris hauled Stiles back upright, examined his flushed face, gaping mouth and blown pupils, then glanced down at his dripping erection. “This is worth it.”

“Chris—” Stiles squirmed against the surprisingly secure fabric, and tried to force some protest into his voice, but mostly he thought he just sounded breathless. The man’s stare was hungry, taking him in, arms bound behind him, cock rock hard and leaking, ass and thighs red and on fire, his legs still tangled in his wet jeans. He groaned softly.

Chris reached out and tweaked one of his nipples, making him arch and mewl. “I’m tempted to put a plug in your ass, but I’m guessing with the state you’re in, that would just make you come.” Stiles had to nod in agreement, eyes squeezed shut out of self-preservation. He was just about maxed out on stimulation at the moment. How they could get him teetering on the edge, and hold him there so easily, he didn’t know. “Alright then.”

Stiles felt Peter shift away. He barely realized his legs were free before Chris picked him up and deposited him, sitting with his back against the headboard. His eyes flew open and he hissed, arching at the sudden pressure on his backside, noticing too late when a different length of fabric was threaded between his upper arms and body. Within moments he was secured in place.

Chris dropped a kiss on his temple. “Good?”

Stiles pulled and wriggled, shivering at the heat prickling down his neck and chest, but he managed to nod again, feeling a like a bobble-head, too dazed for words. He was definitely caught, bound securely, but not uncomfortable.

Chris stepped away and Peter took his place, dragging Stiles’ pants the rest of the way off, fluffing the pillows behind his lower back and pressing a kiss and a quick bite to his throat, before murmuring in his ear, “Enjoy the show, sweetheart.”

Stiles only had time to ask “What—” before Peter was being hauled back and spun around. Chris’ large hands sunk into Peter’s hair, and dragged him into a kiss.

Stiles’ breath wheezed out of him as he stared, wide-eyed and jaw dropped. He realized that he had never seen the two of them kiss before. It also suddenly registered that, while he and Peter were now naked, Chris was fully clothed and had even tucked himself away, though his pants were still unfastened.

Peter was growling, kneeling on the bed, his hands fisted in the back of Chris’ shirt as the hunter arched over him. Chris forced him to bend further, taking a position of power and forcing the wolf to bare his throat. But Peter refused to submit. Their kiss was more battle for dominance than anything, and Stiles had the best seat in the house.

At first, Chris seemed to have the upper hand, but Peter quickly reversed their positions. He loomed, using his greater strength to press Chris back, making Chris’ knees slide on the sheets. The whole time their lips moved together roughly, but with the ease of familiarity, licking into each other’s mouths, biting and dragging out groans and low growls, knowing where the other was sensitive and exploiting it. Chris freed a hand to pull sharply on one of Peter’s nipple rings, making him arch and shout. Peter dragged blunt human nails down Chris’ back in retaliation, getting a bitten off hiss for his trouble.

Stiles drank in the view. Watching the corded muscles of Peter's back as they shifted under his skin, Stiles practically drooled at the dips and shadows highlighting his form as they struggled. Chris’ muscles were visible in the stretch of fabric across broad shoulders, the tightness of his sleeves around his biceps, and the defined line of his pecs visible in the dip of his shirt collar. It made Stiles fidget with the need to touch. God, they were stunning together. How the hell did he get this lucky?

Stiles found his eyes drawn to Peter’s ass, watching it flex as Peter tried to take control. He didn’t catch the beginning of the movement, but Peter twisted suddenly and got a leg wrapped around Chris’ thigh, using his weight and supernatural strength to flip their positions. Stiles couldn’t track what happened, but somehow it was Peter who ended up face down, sideways across the bed with one arm twisted up behind him and Chris braced across his back. Peter snarled, baring fangs and flashing red eyes as he struggled, making Stiles jerk his legs back, out of the way of stray claws.

Chris huffed out a laugh. “Couldn’t take me with that move when we were teenagers, what makes you think it’s going to work now, pup?” But Stiles could see Chris’ muscles straining to hold the alpha in place, his better positioning and leverage the only things keeping Peter pinned. He was every inch the world-renowned hunter Peter had labeled him.

Peter pulled his lips back from elongated teeth, but his words were still crisp and clear. “I don’t know. It sounds to me like you’re struggling, old man.” Chris lunged and sunk his teeth into Peter’s throat, making him jerk, and his breath stutter as his eyes rolled back. Stiles’ eyes widened as a trickle of blood ran down Peter’s neck. He was pretty sure biting your prey was _not_ an approved hunter tactic. But, fuck, was it effective.

The wolf’s nostrils flared, and he _whined_ , muscles unlocking until he lay limp under the hunter, both of them panting like they’d just survived a battle. Maybe they had.

Chris unclamped his jaw, nuzzling as the small wound knitted closed. “There we go,” he murmured, sitting up. He ran his hands firmly down Peter’s back, making him arch and rock against the bed when Chris squeezed his ass. “Now, let's ask Stiles what we should do with you.” One hand dropped between Peter’s spread legs and did something that Stiles couldn’t see, but made Peter’s breath hitch.

Peter turned his head and met Stiles’ startled gaze. His eyes were still red, pupils almost obscuring the glow, fangs long and sharp against his lips. He glanced down along Stiles’ bound body and smirked, expression wicked despite the submissive posture. Stiles squirmed and drew his knees in, tugging a little on the silk trapping him against the headboard. He was suddenly, horribly, conscious of his throbbing erection, which showed no signs of fading.

“He’s a smart boy. I’m sure he knows any suggestions will be taken into account when it’s his turn.”

Stiles whimpered, pretty sure he wasn’t capable of words, much less suggestions right now anyway. He didn’t get a chance to try, before Peter snarled suddenly, back bowing, and Stiles yelped, startled.

“Be nice, pup. Or I'll tie you up, and you can wait while I take Stiles apart by myself.” Chris shifted and used his knees to spread Peter’s legs wide. The new angle meant Stiles could see his hand between Peter’s legs, fingers curled under and around his balls, gripping firmly, a thumb shoved deep in his ass. Stiles winced in sympathy, understanding now why Peter wasn’t trying to struggle. With that hold, Chris could probably move him wherever he wanted.

He proved it by sitting back and drawing Peter to his hands and knees at the edge of the mattress. Peter’s head hung between his shoulders, but Stiles could see he was still hard. Once Chris had him positioned, he reached over and grabbed the bottle of lube from the bedside table.

Stiles moaned helplessly, realizing what Chris was going to make him watch with no hope of relief. His moan drew Peter’s attention, and he met Stiles’ eyes again.

If Stiles had expected to see submission on Peter’s face, he was destined to be disappointed. Excitement, arousal, and a raw wildness were visible, but Peter gave the impression that he was _allowing_ this, not submitting to it. Stiles found himself caught and quaking as the red eyes of the wolf drew him in, filled with promises that he couldn’t decipher.

“Ready, pup?” Peter shivered when Chris poured lube down his crack, and his back arched when Chris started to thrust shallowly.

Stiles realized he was squirming again, licking his lips as he watched Chris’ thumb disappear over and over. Peter didn’t make a sound when a second finger was added, or when Chris started scissoring them, but Stiles saw his fingers curl into the sheets. Chris’s smirk said he’d noticed as well. “Will you be good for me, Peter? Are you going to let me work you open and fuck you?”

Stiles whimpered quietly. Those were almost the exact words he had heard through the wall last night. Chris really was going to show him what he missed.

Peter gritted his teeth, silent until Chris added a third finger, driving them in hard, and earning a rough shout. “Yes!” he ground out, rocking his hips back.

“Yes, what?” Though Chris’s tone was low and smooth, his expression showed his anticipation. Stiles couldn’t help the arch of his hips at the thought of Peter begging Chris to fuck him.

“Yes, Argent,” Peter mocked, only to wince when Chris shoved his fingers forward again.

“You can do better than that.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter simpered, rolling his eyes, and Stiles couldn't bite back a giggle. He saw Peter's limbs tremble when Chris twisted his fingers in retaliation.

Then Chris grinned, and looked at Stiles, who froze, staring back with wide eyes. “Maybe you can show him how it’s done, baby.”

“W-what?” His heart was racing, and he wasn’t quite sure Chris was asking what Stiles thought he was.

“Beg me to fuck him.”

Stiles keened, sweat breaking out across his forehead. He didn't know if he could do that, wasn’t even sure where to start. He looked at Peter who had raised glassy, surprised blue eyes to meet his brown. Stiles stared back, lost, as Chris pulled his fingers out and freed his thick cock from his pants, then lined up and waited. Peter twisted and tried to rock against the grip on his hips, little huffs escaping him. Chris stared Stiles down.

“Oh fuck…” He glanced between the two of them, taking in Peter’s straining muscles, skin starting to gleam with exertion. Chris’ eyes danced as he watched Stiles struggle for words. “I— Please, fuck him.” He shook his head, trying to chase the embarrassment off, and find words Chris would like. “He-He wants it. You need to.” He felt his cheeks burn, sweat trickling down his temple.

Peter was staring at him, eyes reflecting his surprise.

“Please. I—” His heart was pounding and, oh. He suddenly realized what he needed to say. “I want to see.” He picked up speed, words tumbling out. “I want to see how good he feels, you splitting him open.” He heard someone’s breathing hitch, and knew it wasn’t his. “You’re so big… you’ll be so deep. I need to see it.” He was panting, hips twisting in sympathy. “Please, fuck him. I want to watch, C-Chris,” his voice wavered, cracking on the last syllable.

“For fuck’s sake—” Peter grit out, sounded wrecked, before Chris shifted, starting to press inside, and his words morphed to a long, low groan. Peter shook and panted quietly, but Chris continued, not stopping until Peter had taken him to the hilt. Peter’s eyes were wide and wet, his mouth hanging open.

“That’s it. Just breathe.” Chris rubbed a hand up and down Peter’s side as the other man visibly tried to slow his breathing. “I know, pup. You're so good. You can take it.”

“Fuck. Christopher…” His voice was a growl, faux-annoyance not quite covering the overwhelmed desire.

Chris fisted a hand in his hair, and pulled his head back slowly. “Relax. And tell Stiles thank you.”

Stiles felt his skin burn and shook his head. He didn’t want to be pulled any further into this struggle for dominance.

Peter licked his lips and gave Stiles a half-lidded glare, claws pricking the sheets. “Thank you, baby.”

Stiles scrunched his nose up at that particular pet name coming from Peter. If he hadn’t been before, there was no doubt Peter was trying to get under Chris’ skin now.

“Hmm. Not like that, I don’t think.” Chris dragged Peter upright with an arm across his chest. It made him groan, shaking, as it forced Chris deeper. Turning and resettling them, he let Peter fall forward, barely controlling his descent, this time across Stiles’ bent legs.

Stiles couldn’t do anything to catch him, so he froze, trying not to flail and knee anything important. He gaped at Chris in confusion.

“Peter has a choice. He can lie there and take it, and maybe he’ll get off from being fucked, though he doesn't usually.”

Stiles licked his lips. The way Chris was eyeing him making him feel too hot. “Or?” he rasped.

“Or he can suck you, and I’ll make sure he comes.”

Stiles’ sucked in a ragged breath as _want_ blindsided him, and he whined.

“There’s a catch though.” Chris’ free hand reached up and pressed two fingers against Stiles’ lips, until he opened his mouth and sucked at them eagerly. “If he makes you come, no one is going to fuck you.”

The sound Stiles made around Chris’ fingers was wounded. His eyes went wide, and hurt, as he jerked back, releasing the man. He already felt out of control, there was no way he would survive that. He was a heartbeat away from orgasm, and he needed them to fuck him so badly, he thought he might lose his mind if they didn’t.

“No, Chris, please! That’s not fair!” He struggled in earnest this time, not sure if he was trying to get away, or stop them, or just get some room to explain that he couldn’t do it. He was too close to the edge, and he didn’t want to disappoint them when he failed.

Peter got to his hands and knees quickly, groaning as the movement shifted Chris inside of him. “Stiles, stop. Breathe.” He reached up, warm palm sliding against Stiles’ cheek, fingers threading into his hair, cradling his head.

Hearing his name, Stiles froze, chest heaving as Peter leaned in and pressed a long kiss to his mouth, tongue gentle, coaxing him to relax by degrees. When he was calm again Peter pulled back.

“It's not a trap.” He licked Stiles’ cheek and made his lips twitch up in a smile. “Do you think I'm incapable of controlling your orgasm?” Peter's smile was wicked. “Darling, I can keep you on edge for hours. You won't be _able_ to come until I let you, and I have a feeling you’ll enjoy every second of it.”

Stiles’ mouth dropped open and he stared, then looked to Chris.

Chris’ smile was rueful, like he hadn’t meant to push quite that hard. “He's not lying, but what if I give you the choice, baby? Do you want Peter to suck you? Make you desperate? You won't get to come, even if you're sobbing for it. Or you can make him wait. I'll pound him until he's screaming and cussing, but he won't get to finish.”

Peter was waiting, his pupils blown and fine tremors going through him. Stiles could see him chewing the inside of his cheek.

“If I,” Stiles licked his lips, squirming, “go with option one, I get to come eventually, right?”

Chris’ voice was warm, and he reached out to brush a thumb against Stiles’ damp lip. “Baby, we’re gonna make you come so hard, you won’t remember what day it is.”

Stiles took a shaky breath, held it, and tried to force his body to calm. He knew what his answer was. “Suck me.”

Peter's eyes glowed red as he looked at Stiles, surprised and pleased. “Sweet boy,” he murmured, dropping a kiss to Stiles' collar bone, moaning when Chris rocked into him.

Stiles tried not to let how overwhelmed he was show. He only had to hold on for a little while. Peter was already hard and dripping, and with the way he was quivering, he wouldn't last long. Stiles could do this for him. And honestly, he couldn’t stop his impulsive curiosity, anyway. He’d never been edged before, and he wanted to know if Peter was as good as he claimed.

“Get to it, then.” Chris pulled Peter back and held him still, waiting for Stiles to uncurl from his protective ball.

Stiles shifted, feeling a little awkward, shaky and unsure as he stretched out. The new position, with his legs spread wide enough to make room for the two of them put him on display. He was bound, but offering himself freely. He ducked his head to the side, trying to hide from the picture he made, his balls pulled up tight, skin flushed, aching cock leaking onto his stomach. Since he wasn't looking, he startled at Peter's low, rumbling growl. It took a moment to realize that he was showing his throat to an alpha werewolf. He felt his heart start pounding in his chest, but didn't move.

“Stiles.”

He lifted his eyes slowly to look at Chris, then couldn't help but stare, riveted. 

Chris had Peter up against his chest, one hand gripping his hip, the other tight at his throat. The wolf’s eyes were glowing like embers, clawed hands gripping the hunter's wrists, flexing rhythmically, but not digging in. Peter's mouth was slack, fangs just visible between his lips, body glistening with sweat, his erection wet and dark. His thighs were spread, so Stiles could see the base of Chris’ thick cock disappearing inside him, thrusting in little pulses that made shudders move through Peter’s frame. While Stiles watched, a bead of pre-come welled from the tip of Peter’s erection and slid to hang from the curve of the Prince Albert.

The sound Stiles made was barely human, as whatever tiny amount of blood that wasn’t already in his dick rushed south. He wanted to taste. Needed it. He felt saliva pool and slide down the edge of his jaw. His eyes were locked on Peter’s cock and he strained forward as much as he could, licking his lips, leaning against the silk holding him.

Chris, the bastard, chuckled and loosened the hold he had on Peter’s hip to swipe his thumb over the piercing, making it slide through Peter’s skin. Peter’s hips hitched and he growled, the sound amplified unnaturally. Chris slammed his own hips up in response and gripped Peter’s throat, forcing him to stop, “Behave,” he growled, then reached across and offered Stiles his glistening thumb.

Stiles nearly dove forward, closing his lips over the digit, licking and sucking eagerly. He melted a little, eyes glued to Chris' face, happy to savor every scrap of their combined flavor, of Peter, of Chris. He tried to memorize what they tasted like together. It was so good. He wanted more. “Please,” he murmured, muffled by the thumb still in his mouth. “Please?”

“Alright, baby, just relax.” Chris pulled his thumb away, cupping Stiles' cheek for a moment before sitting back. Shifting his grip to the back of Peter’s neck, Chris directed him down so he was on all fours, elbows braced on the bed between Stiles’ thighs.

Stiles squeaked when Peter slid clawed hands along his legs, pushing them wider, not sure if the sound was from nerves or from how exposed he felt. “Peter…” His voice shook, thigh muscles jumping.

It was hard to tell from Peter’s face how much control he had. He leaned close and inhaled deeply, then blinked up at Stiles. “Not going to hurt you.” He smirked, fangs glinting in the light, his expression holding every bit of the teasing Stiles had come to expect. “At least, not in ways you don’t like.” Stiles groaned and let his head fall back against the headboard with a thunk, missing it when Peter leaned in and licked a stripe from his balls all the way to the tip of his cock.

His back arched so hard that a lesser headboard would have been rattling. As it was, all the air whooshed out of his lungs, and his next breath was a ragged gasp. “Peter!”

Peter shifted, bracing his knees and pinning Stiles’ thighs down with claw-free hands before burying his face in the crease of Stiles’ hip, lips moving across the sensitive skin there. Stiles could see his shoulders hitching in time with Chris’ slow, methodical thrusts, but Peter seemed focused, rubbing his face against Stiles’ groin, scenting him as Stiles panted and tried to writhe. Peter licked and kissed every inch of exposed skin he could reach, avoiding Stiles’ needy erection until Stiles was shaking, little whimpers slipping free with every breath.

“Do what you promised, Peter.” Chris thrust hard, making Peter lurch forward with a grunt. “Make it good for him."

That seemed to be all the encouragement Peter needed. He lifted his head and swallowed Stiles down, fingers closing around the base at the same time and squeezing, stopping Stiles’ orgasm before it could start.

Stiles let out a shout, already overstimulated beyond where he could control himself. He couldn’t stop the stutter of his hips, Peter’s grip on his thighs the only thing preventing him from thrusting uncontrollably. Everything narrowed down to the feel of Peter's mouth wrapped around him, to the hot, wet pressure. The tension in his body building and building. “ _Peterpeterpeter._ ”

He was so focused on trying to hold back his orgasm he didn't realize Peter had stopped until teeth sunk into the sensitive meat of his inner thigh—hard. 

The sound that left him could only be called a wail. The sudden pain was too shocking for his brain to do anything but stall, his eyes wide and unseeing.

“Goddammit, Peter.” There was a snarl and a moment of struggle before he felt Peter's hands push his thighs wider and a tongue lap across the bite. The shock faded as the pain dulled to a more manageable throb.

Stiles blinked, shivering with adrenaline. “You bit me.” His brain was still frozen, and only just registering that those teeth belonged to an _alpha werewolf_. 

He jerked, frantically craning his neck to look at the mark. He didn't really believe that Peter would go through all of that just to turn him, but he wasn't exactly thinking logically. Catching sight of the purpling bruise, but no blood, he sagged, letting his head hang.

Peter grinned with human teeth. “Didn't break the skin.”

“Asshole,” he groaned, his heart rate slow to settle. “You said you wouldn't hurt me.”

Peter smirked and nuzzled the mark. His expression was much too pleased, but he watched Stiles closely, nostrils flaring as he scented. “Not in ways you don’t like.” He tilted his head, peering up at Stiles curiously. “Did I lie?” He pressed his tongue against the bruise, making it throb, but, Stiles realized as he started to blush, it had turned into the kind of tingling pain that made him want to beg for more.

“It—no.” Peter sucked lightly and Stiles groaned, low and helpless. “It's good.” Peter had also managed to distract him from his arousal, which was probably his goal, but it was still there. He looked up at Chris, who had an iron grip on Peter, but was motionless, his eyes locked on Stiles.

"Are you okay?"

Stiles nodded, rolling his eyes a little. "Freaking werewolves…"

Chris grinned, then mouthed, "Watch."

Peter wriggled impatiently. “Well? Get a move on, Argent. I haven't got all day.”

Chris’ resulting thrust made Peter's spine arch, his expression going blank as he fought for composure. He grunted when Chris slammed forward again, starting a punishing rhythm. He managed to hold it together for a few thrusts before slumping into Stiles’ lap, bitten off gasps forced out of him each time Chris bottomed out.

Stiles stared, wide-eyed, as Chris slid one hand up Peter’s spine to grip the back of his neck. If he hadn’t been so close, he wouldn’t have seen Peter’s shudder or heard the soft whine he let out before he started eagerly kissing and licking up Stiles’ erection again. This time when Peter took him in his mouth, the sensation was more manageable. Still unbelievably good, but he thought he could probably survive it.

One of Peter’s hands cupped his thigh, thumb rubbing back and forth over the fresh bruise, sending little shocks of pain to mix with the building pleasure. Stiles wasn’t even thinking about where Peter's other hand was until a finger pressed against his entrance. He’d found lube somewhere, and, while Stiles was blearily trying to figure out how, the slick digit pressed inside, sliding easily to the last knuckle.

He… might not actually survive this.

He keened, arching and thrusting down as his brain started spinning. Peter’s finger moved in a gentle rocking motion that wasn’t enough—too slow, too much—and made desperation buzz under his skin, drowning everything else out. He was probably begging. He wasn’t sure what words were leaving his mouth, but he didn’t care as long as Peter didn’t stop. 

So of course the bastard did stop. Worked him up to the edge only to ease him back twice, first with one thick finger inside of him, and then two. Stiles lost track of where he was. He was gasping, his vision blurry from either tears, or the spots that kept crowding in front of his eyes. It was also possible he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. He kept trying to reach for Peter, and being brought up short. He whimpered and tugged at his bonds, but the look Peter shot him didn’t give him much hope for being released.

He was startled when Peter suddenly stopped to bury his face in Stiles’ hip, breath hitching as he shook. It took a moment for the fog to clear enough to realize that Chris had shifted and, from the angle, must be hammering Peter's prostate. He looked up and met Chris’ eyes, his own glazed and trying to cross every time Peter pressed his fingers in, twisting and stretching, but avoiding the one place Stiles wanted him to touch.

“Should I make him come?” How the hell Chris was so composed? Stiles didn't understand.

Peter groaned and gently eased a third finger into Stiles, spreading them and sucking on the bruise that now seemed to be connected directly to his cock.

Stiles’ breath caught, and his eyes rolled back. “Ah! Please!”

Peter’s chuckle was breathless, voice strained. “You heard him. Finish it already, Christopher.” He thrust back, shuddering hard. Chris grinned and slid a hand under Peter to grip his cock, jacking him roughly. Peter’s spine bowed and Stiles felt him gasping, trying to muffle the sound against his stomach.

Chris met Stiles’ eyes, fucking _winked_ , and then bent forward to sink his teeth into Peter’s shoulder.

Peter howled as his orgasm swept through him, muscles rolling, fingers shoving into Stiles and making him arch and cry out at the stretch.

Peter pressed deep as he jerked, the pounding of Chris’ hips rocking them until Stiles felt like he was getting fucked right along with him. When Peter shifted down to where Stiles was stretched around his fingers and licked the taut skin, he let out a sharp sob, too overwhelmed to do more than shake.

Finally, _finally_ , Chris’ hips slowed, and he eased free, stroking his hands over Peter's back and dropping kisses down his spine. Peter gave a pleased sigh and continued tracing his tongue over Stiles, making him whimper and his entire body tremble.

Chris lifted himself off of Peter after a moment, and moved to the side of the bed. He angled Stiles away from the headboard, releasing his arms with a few tugs. They fell limply to his sides and Stiles panted through the ache, fingertips tingling as the blood rushed back.

As he was focused on the red imprints decorating his arms, Chris moved him forward. The new angle shifted Peter's fingers, pressing them against his prostate for the first time. Electric heat raced up his spine, and he arched with a shout, flailing in Chris’ hold as his vision went spotty at the edges. He could feel Peter’s grip keeping him from orgasm _again_ , and he whimpered brokenly.

Long seconds later, he was settled with Chris behind him, chest to his back, rubbing the feeling back into his arms. Peter was up on his knees, kissing his chest and sucking on a nipple.

“Oh my God…” he mumbled, tossing his head. “I can't…I can't—please fuck me…” 

“Okay, baby. Shh...” Chris said in his ear, the quiet rumble making Stiles press back against him. “You don't have to wait anymore, but you need to get Peter ready.”

Stiles whined, uncomprehending.

“Give me your hand.” His wrist was caught and lube poured into his palm. He felt clumsy, uncoordinated, and Chris ended up guiding him forward to coat Peter with the slick, his cock already half-hard and thickening under Stiles’s hand. He blinked down at it, entranced, then looked up into amused blue eyes.

“I told you, sweetheart. Werewolf. No waiting.” He caught Stiles in a gentle kiss as he carefully drew his fingers away.

Stiles keened, beyond words, chasing after Peter's tongue and begging with his body. His free hand flapped uselessly until Peter took both wrists and wrapped them around his neck, breaking the kiss with a series of soft pecks. “Hold on, lovely.”

Stiles leaned forward, pressing his face into Peter's neck and clinging with weak arms as he was shifted and settled with his legs spread wide astride Peter’s lap. He felt supernaturally strong hands grip his hips and lift him, and then he was being lowered. Stretched open. Filled.

He let out a breathy sigh and tucked himself tighter against Peter's neck as the renewed erection pressed into all of the places he was aching and empty. Then he shivered and went limp when Chris’ broad hand began to rub up and down his back.

Peter's first shallow thrust made him groan at the slow spiral of pleasure. It wasn't like anything he’d felt before—already beyond where he thought he was capable of going, and still reaching higher. He should be afraid. It was too much. He wouldn't be able to handle it. Then Chris pressed against his back again, surrounded him, and he remembered he was safe. This was Chris, and Peter, and they were going to take care of him. It was okay to let go.

Stiles was helpless in the face of the rhythm Peter set, weak hands sliding along sweat-damp skin, lips and teeth tasting and scraping against Peter’s throat. He could feel the pulse under his tongue and bit down hard, smiling as Peter’s heart rate jumped, and he heard and felt the man moan. Peter tasted so good. Felt so good.

“Sweet boy. That's it. You're doing so well,” Peter growled into his hair, lips pressing against his scalp as he was worked up and down on Peter’s cock.

Chris tugged his upper body backward, and the new angle let Peter’s piercing drag over his prostate. Stiles convulsed with a shout, so close to coming that it hurt. He gave another little sob as the next thrust shuddered through him, lighting him up from the inside. He was crying out with each roll of Peter's hips, flying high. The last straw was when they lifted him from Peter’s lap, only to shift him back onto Chris’.

The new, mind-blowing stretch made his back arch and his mouth drop open. It seemed to go on forever as Chris opened him up in increments, pressing in an inch at a time, then retreating. He gasped wetly, a mish-mash of words and pleading sounds leaving his lips. Peter's voice was a wash of reassurance, and Chris’ was full of growled encouragement as they eased him open.

Finally, he was fully seated, stretched wide and impossibly full. He couldn't stop shaking as he clung to Peter's neck, unable to see past the tears in his eyes, his breath hiccuping in his chest.

“Stiles? You okay? Talk to me.” Chris demanded an answer he didn't know how to give. His mouth opened and closed, but only wrecked whimpers escaped. He heard Peter inhale, close to his throat, and felt the brush of lips.

“He's okay.”

“Not that I don't trust werewolf senses, but I need your words, Stiles.”

That was his name. Chris was asking a question and wanted an answer. He wanted to answer. He struggled for a moment, but finally, he made his voice work. “G-Green.”

Peter chuckled and licked the tears from his cheeks. “That's pretty clear, don't you think?”

Chris let out a pleased hum, and lifted Stiles by the hips, rocking him steadily as he shook and mewled—starting a new, slower rhythm that forced all the remaining coherency from his brain.

Stiles could only hold on, everything else a wash of sensation. Smell, touch, taste. Fingers pressed to his mouth and he sucked on them gratefully. Hands lifted and moved him, spreading his thighs, pulling his head back, pressing and stroking against sensitive places. He shook and sobbed as he was transferred from Chris’ lap to Peter's and back again, their cocks relentless as they filled him. He could hear their voices, but the words didn't process, he was only aware of the tone—desire, pleasure, heat.

Just as he thought he might shatter into pieces from the intensity, a rough-callused hand wrapped around him and dragged his focus back as it pumped firmly. He screamed around the fingers in his mouth, and his vision went white, everything disappearing. Electricity ripped through him and he lost track of his body as his orgasm crashed over him in endless, earth-shattering waves.

The cock inside him withdrew as he was caught up in the midst of it, and was quickly replaced with someone else's. Peter’s. He could feel the Prince Albert rubbing against the bundle of nerves inside him, and it triggered a whole new shock-wave of pleasure. Seconds later he felt pulsing heat as Peter came.

The world spun as he was laid on the bed, arms flung out at his sides. His legs were hitched up and Chris pressed inside easily, his hole slick and messy from Peter.

The rhythm was different as Chris drove toward completion, each thrust dragging against his prostate. Stiles arched into it, feeling nothing but pleasure as aftershocks sparked through to his fingertips and toes. Chris came with a shout, buried deep and grinding against Stiles’ ass as he filled him. Stiles hummed at the flood of warmth as Chris shuddered and panted against him, and let himself drift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional tags/warnings: very kinky sex, everyone is very into it, mild pain-play, super minor blink-and-you-miss-it blood play, barebacking, overstimulation. As a reminder, we're finally getting to the: under-negotiated kink, begging, spanking, bondage, orgasm delay, edging.**
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> Out of curiosity, I'm wondering if anyone caught the (very very) vague reference to the title in the first half of chapter 2?
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> And finally, it’s my birthday! In celebration I’m getting lunch at the arepa place from chapter 4. Sooo delicious! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I made you all wait so long for this chapter! I didn't intend for it to take me a month to edit, but it looks like that's where we are. Oops? I feel like I should also apologize because, as you can see, chapter-creep has happened again, and instead of this being 7/7, it's 7/8. That's because now there's an epilogue. It will probably be a while before I get it done, but I'm hoping updating the chapter count will force me to finish it already!
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> Many thank yous to twisted_mind and Nightwalker for the beta!! <3

He was warm and heavy, as if gravity had increased while he wasn’t paying attention, but his brain was lighter than cotton candy—sugar-sweet and ready to float away, or melt, at the slightest touch. It felt like being caught in the moment between asleep and awake—mind tethered to reality by the thinnest strand of spider-silk, just distracted, chasing down mental were-bunnies.

Flickers of sensation started to tug at him. They tingled down to his fingertips and back up, across his shoulder, down his spine, and over the curve of his ass, slowly making him aware of his body again. He was sprawled on his belly, hips a bit twisted around, but with his chest pressed against a fantastic amount of skin that smelled like sweat and sex—things he wanted to taste just as soon as he could focus a little.

Gradually, he recognized the rise and fall of breath, the sharp jut of a collarbone against his cheek, and the softness of the mattress beneath one hip and thigh. He wasn’t sure what the rest of his limbs were doing, beyond being floppy and boneless, but it didn’t really seem to matter. Everything felt good. Safe.

Except his throat was dry—he licked at his lips, but was too comfortable to do anything else about it. The thought had barely registered when the body supporting him shifted and he was angled more upright. He huffed in protest as he readjusted, but quickly forgot to mind when something was pressed to his mouth, he heard “slow”, and cool liquid trickled across his tongue. He swallowed, greedy, and hummed when he was he was given more in tiny sips.

“Are you back, baby?”

“Look at him, Christopher, he's still non-verbal.” That was a smug voice. He liked that voice, but it was wrong. He could use words—probably. Stiles licked the fingers near his face, they tasted like Peter. He bit down, earning an amused sound.

He both heard and felt a deep, vibrating chuckle, and he shook with the movement. Oh. That was Chris. He was draped across Chris’ chest. Nice. He was a limp noodle, or maybe a Stiles-shaped weighted blanket. He hoped Chris liked having someone draped over him as much as Stiles liked being drape-y, because he was never moving.

Chris laughed again. “Is that even English?”

“I think some of it might be Polish, the part that was actual words anyway.” 

Maybe it was time to force his eyes open, before he needed to hire a translator. The first thing he saw was Peter, sprawled out on his side and smirking, cheek propped on his fist. His other hand traced shapes on Stiles’ shoulder, down his side, and over his tattoo. That meant the hands he could feel smoothing over his back and hip belonged to Chris. Good. He liked knowing their hands were on him.

He turned his head enough that he could see Chris’ face. He was leaning back against the headboard and Stiles smiled at him. Chris’ expression was soft, more relaxed than Stiles was used to. That was good, too. 

“Hello, sweetheart.” Stiles looked back at Peter, drinking in the sight of him. “Glad to have you with us again.”

Stiles blinked at him slowly, puzzled, because he was pretty sure he hadn’t gone anywhere. He tried to ask, “Where?” but no, that was just a hum. 

Peter grinned. “Well, partially back.” 

Chris was still laughing softly and he sounded so happy that Stiles melted. “Take your time, baby.” Stiles nuzzled into his chest. 

Stiles couldn’t tell if it was minutes later, or hours—but he figured he should start being a human again. He stretched, wiggling his fingers and toes with a groan, then shifted to curl more in Chris’ lap, instead of being awkwardly sprawled across him. He felt sleepy and soft, but groggy, like he had just taken the longest, most comfortable nap of his life. Someone had cleaned him up, the discomfort of drying lube and come missing, and he soaked in the warm fuzzies of that for a moment.

Chris shifted with him, accommodating his movement and drawing him closer. Arms slid around his waist as Stiles dropped his head to Chris’ shoulder. “Wow,” he mumbled. “I feel really good.” He stretched a hand out, reaching for Peter, who obligingly shifted over and started running his palm up and down Stiles’ calf. Stiles rubbed his cheek against Chris’ bare shoulder, loving the warmth. It soothed his constant yearning for contact, and he reveled in the settled-in-his-skin sensation that was usually so elusive. He had missed the chance to touch Chris earlier, to feel him without clothes in the way. He was going to make up for that oversight now. “When did you get naked?”

Peter snorted. “Told you.”

“What?” Stiles dragged his head back enough to see them both, Chris looking fond, Peter smug and insufferable as always.

“You were very insistent.” Chris reached up and thumbed Stiles’ cheek with a smile. “Not that you were using words by then.”

Peter’s grin was teasing, but his eyes were warm and his hand kept sliding up and down Stiles’ leg, from hip, to knee, to ankle, and back again. “It was like watching a drunk kitten try to undress a fully grown human. I said you were too far gone to remember any of it, but Christopher wasn’t sure.” His eyes danced. “Do you always speak Polish when you’re in subspace?”

Stiles hummed again, trying to focus on more than just the back and forth of his lips against Chris’ collarbone. He thought he might be embarrassed about all of that later, but right now everything was too good to ruin it. “Sometimes if I’m drunk enough, or sleep deprived, I do. Not sure about during sex though.” He let his tongue dart out, tasting salty skin with another pleased sound that he didn’t bother to hold back. 

Chris shivered and cupped the back of his head in response, thumb rubbing behind his ear. “No one’s mentioned it before? It was cute.”

“No one’s broken my brain like that before.” Peter looked inordinately pleased by that comment.

“You were pretty far gone,” Chris said, lips touching Stiles’ hairline, stubble scratchy against his temple. “How do you feel now?”

“Super floaty. Kind of like I took a double dose of anxiety meds.” He tilted his head up to smile at Chris. “It's awesome.”

Chris returned the smile, something possessive in the expression. “Sounds like you're still flying.”

“If I knew it was going to feel this good, I would’ve had someone fuck me like that sooner.” He blinked at Peter's sudden, low growl, and Chris’ hand tightening on his hip. “Or, maybe not,” he amended with a grin. “But I definitely would’ve tried to climb one of you like a tree months ago.”

Peter's growl changed to a pleased rumble, and his hand slid up Stiles’ side to stroke over the fox tattoo, like he was petting the creature inked into Stiles’ skin. Stiles melted.

He wanted to keep them. He wondered just what it would take to convince them to let him. Maybe Lydia would help, she enjoyed scheming. Peter seemed easy to bribe, and Stiles already lived with Chris. It wouldn’t be that hard. 

What would it be like to wait for Peter after work, take his hand and drag him home for dinner? They could team up on Chris, pounce on him and make him put his laptop away. Curl up on the couch and trade lazy kisses, hands untucking and sliding under clothes. Kisses would quickly devolve into sex, and no one would want to cook. He should find out what Peter liked to eat, so Stiles could add his order to Seamless. Delivery at the push of a button would give them more time for post-sex cuddles. Someone would have to put on pants to get the door. Stiles was going to call a pre-emptive not-it—practical experience said his legs wouldn’t be working yet. 

He was drawn out of the rabbit hole of his rambling thoughts by Peter’s smooth baritone. “Tell me about your tattoos.” 

Stiles took a moment to reconnect his brain, and pull himself back from the happy fantasy relationship he had somehow started to build. He was getting ahead of himself again. Plenty of time for that later.

He arched a little to give Peter better access to his ink, happy to show it off. “I got it when I turned eighteen. My mom used to say I was sneaky and clever, like a fox—always getting into mischief.” He’d heard the plural in Peter's question, knew Peter was curious about the tattoo on his back, but decided to ignore it for the moment. 

Peter's hand moved, shifted, his fingernails lengthening into claws that ever so lightly traced the four ragged scars hidden by the fox’s body. Stiles gave an involuntary shiver at the ticklish sensation. “Are you still hiding from us, Stiles?”

“Peter,” Chris’ tone was a warning. “You're taking advantage.” 

Stiles hummed in agreement. It didn't feel like much could bother him right now—Peter could press for all the answers he wanted and Stiles would hand them over. He understood this, knew it was a little underhanded, but wanted to let Peter press anyway. There was no reason to hide the truth from a werewolf and a hunter. Stiles was tired of secrets, and this one probably wouldn't even surprise them. He tried not to grin at how nice that felt, not wanting them to think he was losing it.

“The alpha pack thought I looked like easy prey.” Peter's hand retracted from his ribs so quickly that it make Stiles blink. He was frowning, concerned, and Stiles didn’t want that—he wanted soft looks, and gentle touches. He reached out and drew Peter back, pressing human fingers to the inked skin, and smirked. “They were right, I make fantastic bait. Gets the bad guys every time.”

Chris twitched a little and pulled Stiles closer, the guilt from before back in his voice. “I knew Scott took care of Deucalion. I didn't know you were injured.”

Oh no, Stiles was already shaking his head. He was not going to let Chris somehow take blame for what Kali did. “Hey, I survived. Mostly intact, even. They underestimated us.” He stroked a soothing hand down Chris’ chest, watching his fingertips trace the shape of the hunter's defined muscles. “And Lydia and I lit the bitch who clawed me up with a wolfsbane-infused Molotov cocktail—burned her like a campfire marshmallow.”

“A teenager took the Demon Wolf's alpha spark?” Peter sounded almost impressed, whether by a bunch of kids taking out the Alpha Pack, or Stiles’ revenge for his scars, he wasn’t sure.

Stiles’ smirk turned lazy and proud. “He didn't have to—-my bro is a True Alpha.”

“Interesting.” Peter’s tone seemed off, but Stiles was distracted by his hand, which had left the tattoo and drifted down. It dipped between Stiles’ legs to brush his inner thigh, causing his knees to part automatically and give the searching fingers room. Stiles was putty, and perfectly happy to be molded into whatever shape Peter wanted. “So," the lawyer drawled. "Does any of that explain the anti-possession rune on your back?”

Stiles froze, even though he should have known that question was coming, had basically set himself up for it, and Peter was too smart to let it go. His heart skipped a beat. “I don't—” He felt Chris' palm cover the small tattoo at the base of his neck and he bit at his lips, eyeing Peter. That one was harder to talk about—actually, that was a lie, he had never tried to explain it before—but he should tell them, especially if he wanted any hope of continuing this, of keeping them. Agonizing over it for weeks or months would only make him miserable, and he had enough hang-ups because of what happened that not explaining was self-destructive. It was better to get it over with.

He just needed to get Chris out of over-protective mode first. The man was practically growling.

“Really, Peter? We aren’t doing this right now.” Chris’ forehead was creased in a frown, and he pulled Stiles closer, broad hand spanning his collar bones and holding him in place. The other hand slid down his back to grip his hip firmly. Stiles melted against Chris’ shoulder, distracted by the possessive hold, and automatically tilted his head back to make room for his hand. A callused thumb pressed against his pulse in response, stroking.

Ignoring the silent threat, Peter rolled gracefully to his knees and straddled Chris' legs, crowding against them. He leaned into Stiles from the opposite side, caging him in with hands on the headboard. Stiles let out a sigh as he was surrounded by heat, skin, and unfairly defined muscle. He tipped his forehead against Peter's chest, breathing him in and resisting the urge to taste and explore—to distract. Impulse control, it was a thing he had—sometimes.

“But I have questions, Christopher,” Peter wheedled.

Chris wasn’t buying it. “You can ask later, when he’s not half-zoned out in subspace.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, forcing his brain back online. Protective-mode. Right. “Didn’t I tell you to quit trying to protect me?” He lifted his chin to nip at the underside of Chris’ jaw. “Let him ask, it doesn’t mean I have to answer.”

Chris shook his head, but relaxed slowly, his hand reluctantly leaving Stiles’ throat to slide down his chest, the other loosening on his hip. “That’s not what I agreed too.” Chris’ amusement couldn’t hide all of the worry in his voice. “But alright. If it’s what you want, I trust you.”

Peter leaned down and nuzzled Stiles’ temple, voice soft, his own concern leaking through the arrogance. “Why do you live so far from your pack, sweet boy? Why doesn't your Alpha keep you close?” Peter reached up and cupped his palm over the rune tattoo. He squeezed gently as Stiles shivered under the hold. “Why are you touch-starved?”

 _Damn._ Stiles’ lips twitched up ruefully. Of course the stupid werewolf lawyer had already put some of it together. Stiles felt Chris’ fingers lace with his, and gripped his hand in return, grateful for the support. “I couldn't stay.”

“What were you possessed by?” Peter asked.

Stiles heaved a sigh, throat dry with nerves as he met Peter's eyes. Peter was watching him with the same piecing-together-the-puzzle focus he had been directing at Stiles off and on since the kitchen that morning. Stiles couldn't help the warm feeling it gave him, to be the center of Peter's regard like that. Chris squeezed his hand again, firm and reassuring. It was enough to make his nerves calm. Stiles licked his lips, pressing the words out. “A Nogitsune.”

Peter’s eyes flickered red and his muscles went tense, then slowly, deliberately relaxed. “A void kitsune.”

“Yeah." The sound Stiles made was too bitter to be called a laugh. "To add to the fun, he’d been imprisoned for a century—was half-mad and feeding off the Nemeton, and then he got out.” Stiles closed his eyes, playing with Chris’ fingers, feeling the shape of them and counting unconsciously. “He had me two months before Lydia came back from abroad, realized something was wrong, and they were able to separate us. Scott destroyed him, but I’d already killed twelve people. It changed things.”

Chris’ voice was low and firm. “Stiles, you didn't kill anyone. A trickster demon wearing your face did.”

Stiles went still at the certainty in Chris’ voice, the lack of surprise. “You knew.”

“Your pack kept it quiet, but the information is there if you know what you’re looking for. Like you said, hunter background checks are through.”

Stiles curled a little tighter, and focused on the sensation of them caging him in, the safety of being held close and surrounded. It was soothing, grounding. Nothing felt real when the Void had him, it was all dulled and out of reach. It came back in nightmares, the feeling of space between his skin and the rest of the world, as if nothing could ever quite connect. It had improved over the years, but he still craved touch, needed to be reminded that he was awake, and safe, and could feel again. The line of heat that was Peter against his side—nose to Stiles’ hairline, lips soft on his temple—and the firm pressure of Chris’ hand, rubbing up and down his spine, made him want to bury himself in the two of them and never let go. 

The fact that Chris had known his biggest secret all this time was mind-boggling. He wasn’t sure how to process it, but he was leaning toward relief. The hunter knew, and still cared about him—wanted to protect him, said he _trusted_ him—when even his oldest friends looked at him with the weight of the past in their eyes. The feeling was definitely relief—and something stronger that Stiles wasn't ready to name.

“None of that explains why they let you leave. That's not how pack works,” Peter said, soft enough that it was hard to read his tone. 

“They didn't want me to go, but Scott—he feels guilty, and he hates it. I hate it.” Stiles breathed out a gusty sigh. “We can't trust each other the way we need to anymore.”

“Of course not. You were possessed and your alpha didn't notice.” Peter’s voice was stronger and it sounded like he was rolling his eyes in disgust, no longer trying to hide his reaction.

“And a monster, wearing me like a sock-puppet, killed eleven police officers, then murdered Scott’s girlfriend in front of him. It _mocked_ him for not being able to save them. All that pain and chaos was just a game, and it used the True Alpha’s best friend to play it.” Even dulled by distance and perspective, the memories still ached. “I was already coming to New York for college. Scott didn't want me to go, but I had to.”

“A decent alpha wouldn't have let you go.” Peter’s tone was scathing and Stiles sighed hard. The issue with Scott was complicated, and Peter, a born wolf who knew the pain of having his pack torn away, would probably never fully understand. 

“He did his best. Sometimes things don't work out, no matter how hard you try.” Or so Stiles’ old therapist said, when he was still trying desperately to fix things that couldn’t be repaired. “He's my brother, and he cares about me. I just don't think we'll ever be a real pack again.” Stiles let the silence hang and hoped the conversation was done

It was Chris who broke the quiet. “I was thirteen the first time my father made me kill a werewolf.” Stiles’ breath caught, and he blinked at Chris, startled. “He told me if I couldn’t do it I was a disgrace to the family name, and he would put me down himself.” His ice-blue eyes were focused somewhere into the middle distance, but his voice was steady, still with the same soothing rumble that made Stiles want to nuzzle into his chest. “I pulled the trigger because it was that, or die, but it was still my choice.”

“You were thirteen.” It was a horrifying thought, but not as shocking as it could be. Stiles had learned a thing or two about hunters over the years.

“That wasn’t my point.” Stiles tightened his grip on Chris’ hand, trying to offer comfort anyway. He noticed that Peter had his fingers in Chris’ hair, carding through gently. “I know the difference between being a murderer, and being used as the tool of one.”

“So do I, darling.” Stiles turned his gaze to Peter. “I was my sister's enforcer. Before I became an Alpha, my wolf eyes were blue.”

He let that sink in for a minute. They weren’t judging him, and Stiles felt a surprised flutter of gratitude at that. He had handed them his most closely guarded secret, and Chris and Peter accepted it, and offered him vulnerable pieces of themselves in return. That felt like something special.

“Okay,” Stiles murmured, understanding, accepting. “Okay.” He took a deep breath, and released it slowly, surprised that there was no tension in his lungs—the knot that should be blocking his air just wasn’t there. As he relaxed he realized he still felt good, coherent and focused, even a little floaty. It made him want to laugh. Apparently, they had fucked the anxiety right out of him. 

“I’ve wondered about the fox tattoo. It doesn’t bring up painful memories?” Chris asked.

Thinking of his fox always made him smile. “One of my mom's nicknames for me was kit. I wasn’t going to let it take that, too.”

“Kit, huh?” There was a grin in Chris’ voice. His stroking palm became fingers trailing down Stiles’ spine. Stiles felt himself blush at the inflection of the old name on Chris’ lips, at the fingertips dancing over ink and scars. “Is anyone else allowed to use it, or is it just for her?”

Stiles didn’t have to think about that for long, imagining Chris calling him ‘kit’ made his belly feel warm and fluttery. He latched onto the sensation. “You could, if you want.” He glanced up. “Lydia calls me Mischief sometimes, but not when anyone else can hear her.”

Chris leaned in and pressed a kiss to Stiles’ mouth, gentle and lingering. “Just in private then.” Stiles returned the kiss, happily.

“Mischief is derived from Mieczysław?”

Stiles broke the kiss to gape at Peter incredulously. “Where did you hear—no, wait, you can _pronounce_ that mess?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Employee records, and I practiced. This isn’t high school, darling, it’s difficult to keep things like your real name a secret in the grown-up world.”

Stiles shoved at Peter’s shoulder, not that he actually moved the wall of muscle. “I _know_ that. ‘Stiles’ is just easier on everyone. Please tell me you’re not going to start using it?”

Peter pretended to think about it. “It would be amusing, the way it makes you squirm…but no. I prefer ‘sweetheart’.” He leaned in, lips brushing Stiles’ shoulder. “Or darling.” The next kiss was higher. “Sweet boy.” His tongue pressed to Stiles’ hitching pulse. “Lovely.” He grazed Stiles’ throat with his teeth making him gasp.

Leaning away from Peter’s mouth, Stiles glared, blushing beet red. “If you call me any of those at work I will murder you.”

“What if I call you ‘pack’?”

Stiles froze, stunned, breath stuttering in his throat. It took him a minute to even process what Peter was saying, searching his expression for the joke.

“My God, Peter, how is your timing this bad?” Chris let his head thunk back against the headboard, but he sounded fond beneath his exasperation. “Please try not to break him.”

“My timing is flawless.”

“Your timing is going to give someone a heart attack.”

“As I said, Christopher, flawless.” Peter shot Chris his $500-an-hour smile.

Stiles continued to stare, his mind whirling. Somehow, despite the alpha werewolf reveal, he hadn't considered that Peter had a pack—of course he did—and chances were good that Stiles had met some of them.

Kira, his favorite associate, had joined the firm only a few weeks after Peter. He never got werewolf from her, but she was something. A little too good at feeding him when he forgot—she always got his coffee order exactly right, despite never asking.

Finstock's new receptionist Erica, also at the firm six months. He had seen Peter leaning on her desk more than once, the blond leering up at him flirtatiously. In retrospect she had to be a wolf. Stiles kicked himself a little for letting jealousy distract him from that realization.

He had also seen a tall, good-looking black man bringing Erica lunch a few times. He could be pack, maybe.

That was at least two. He knew a pack needed three betas to be considered stable. No one else had joined the firm at the same time Peter did. It wasn't Chris, he wouldn't have been able to hide the connection for so long.

“Kira. Erica. Erica's boyfriend?”

Peter lit up with a grin. “Vernon Boyd. Nearly there, brilliant boy,” he purred.

Chris huffed a laugh into Stiles’ shoulder. “Careful, Peter's got a competency kink a mile wide. I don't think either of us can take it if you get him riled up again right now.”

Stiles flushed, pleased, then frowned, trying to figure out the missing piece. It slotted into place a moment later and he nearly groaned at how obvious it was. There was another shifter at the firm, no matter how much Stiles liked to pretend there wasn't. 

“Oh, fuck no. I do not want to be pack with Jackson fucking Whitmore.”

Peter, the asshole, started laughing. Stiles smacked his shoulder, but he didn't even pretend to feel it. He settled for pulling on a nipple ring instead, which at least drew a pleased groan and made Peter stop laughing.

Stiles squirmed at the satisfied smile Peter gave him instead, and Chris gripped his hips to hold him still. “Don't give me that look. I said `no’.”

Peter's smile didn't fade. “I know, but you lied.” 

Stiles blushed again, then ducked forward to press a quick kiss to Peter's lips. “I'm not agreeing.”

“And you aren't refusing either. I can be patient, I've waited six years for Christopher after all.”

Chris’ hands clenched hard enough to make Stiles wince. “You’ve what?” Chris’ voice was soft, disbelieving.

“Don't play dumb, as you said, I have a competency kink.” He winked playfully, but Stiles could feel the tension in him. “I you told you I wanted you in my pack the night I became alpha.”

“You were out of your mind with grief. My sister had just murdered most of your family.”

“Which had nothing to do with you and me,” Peter snapped, then glanced away.

“You never mentioned it again.” 

“Yes, well, then you couldn't say no.” His words were dismissive, but Peter was controlling his expression too carefully for the statement to be anything but the truth.

Chris reached past Stiles and dragged Peter into a kiss that straddled the line between passionate and desperate. His tongue pressed into Peter’s mouth, opening him up, claiming. When they finally broke it they stayed close, foreheads pressed together. Stiles nuzzled into Chris’ throat, trying to let them have their moment without his staring.

“You can't have a hunter in your pack,” Chris said softly, no real objection in his voice.

“Retired hunter.”

“I don't submit to you.” That sounded like his actual concern, something Chris thought was a deal breaker.

Peter let out a shaky breath, as if it pained him to admit it. “I don't want you to.”

Stiles’ heard Chris’ heartbeat stutter under his ear and—he fought back a snicker of amusement—felt Chris’ cock twitch against his hip. 

“That would be complicated.”

“Of course it would.” Peter’s tone was sharp, just this side of scathing. He lifted a hand and pressed it over Chris’ heart, staring at his fingertips as they turned white. “Christopher...” He gritted his teeth, jaw worked silently for a moment. Despite the aggressive posture his voice softened, just a little, vulnerability sneaking through. “Think about it. Please?”

Chris squeezed Peter closer, hand on the back of his neck, Stiles held tight and safe between them. “How could I say no to a 'please’ from Peter Hale?”

“You can't,” Peter muttered into his other shoulder. “It’s in my contract.” He dragged his cheek slowly against Chris’ jaw, scent marking.

Stiles stretched up and brushed a kiss to Chris’ throat, then Peter's shoulder, just breathing them in. Chris turned to nuzzle his ear in response, then shifted.

“Up. We all need food, and showers.”

Stiles made a sound of discontent, but was interrupted by his grumbling stomach. “Okay. Yes, food sounds amazing.”

With an amused huff, Peter pulled Stiles upright making him wince at sore muscles, particularly his ass, which was stinging and throbbing at the same time. Stiles blushed hard when he realized that, despite them cleaning him up, he was still leaking come. “Shower, then food.”

Peter's nostrils flared and he leered, then, obviously showing off, caught Stiles behind the thighs and lifted him from the bed, making him yelp and wrap himself around the wolf like a koala.

“Peter!” He gasped. The rest of his protest was cut off by a moan and full body shudder when his tender ass was grabbed and kneaded. “...bastard.” He jerked again and groaned when Peter bit his neck sharply, definitely causing another bruise.

A moment later he was tugged from Peter's hold and set on his feet—Peter pouted but let him go.

“Don't pout at me, pup, or I won't let you rim him in the shower.”

Stiles looked between them, wide-eyed, wondering for the first time if he had maybe gotten himself in over his head with these two. “What happened to shower and food?” He took a step backwards in the direction of the bathroom. 

Chris and Peter gave him matching grins, though Chris was the one to answer. “Of course we'll let you eat, baby.”

“Yes,” Peter agreed, “We want you to be able to keep up. It’s only Saturday after all.”

They advanced toward his retreating frame, Chris looking wicked, and Peter's eyes starting to glow.

Stiles squeaked, then bolted for the bathroom with a breathless laugh. He was definitely in over his head, and he had never been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed the fluff! Just the epilogue left now. Keep your fingers crossed for me! (It doesn't help that I spent all weekend writing a "drabble" that turned into 2.5k, because I wondered "what if kid!Stiles was a Nancy Drew fan?" ...send help.)
> 
> Oh, and I have a Tumblr now. [shey-elizabeth](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/) We'll see how often I actually use it.
> 
> UPDATE 1/26/2020: I'm still working on the epilogue every day!! I signed up for a few fic exchanges and underestimated the time commitment, but I haven't abandoned this. The current word count on the epilogue is 11k and I'm guessing it'll be 20k and probably two chapters when complete. I really love what I have so far and can't wait to share it with you all! I'll post just as soon as it's done! Sorry to make you wait!


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